The Victor (Newly Published)
by Fyrefly
Summary: Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of collateral. This is a rewrite of Volume I the Octoberverse (originally published in May 2009), and remains rated for foul language, violence, and sexual content.
1. Introductions and Notes

**Title: The Victor**

**Introduction and Author's Notes**

**Rating: M for cussing, violence violence, and sex.**

**Summary: This is a rewrite of the Octoberverse (originally published in May 2009). Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of collateral.**

**Disclaimer: If I could wrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

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**Introduction:**

_This is a reposting of a fanfiction by the same name, which I published on this site in May of 2009. _

_I went through a long period of wanting to remove the original 'The Victor' entirely, but was so moved by the reviews that I received for it and the amount of reader interest it accumulated that I could not take it down. _

_309 Reviews and 380 Favorites as of September 6__th__, 2013. _

_Perhaps not as many as some, but certainly more than I had ever expected._

_My deepest, humblest thanks to readers._

_The new versions of the four "Octoberverse" fics will sloooooowly make their way up in the order with which they were posted, with the exception of 'The Mouth', which will remain as-is. Some chapters will be altered significantly; some will remain virtually identical. Returning readers may not feel the same way, due to the changes or the passage of time. Nevertheless, I appreciate the support that one kept this fanfiction alive. Thank you, so much._

_The entire series is described below, within the context of the original closing author's notes._

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**2009:**

Would you believe me if I told you _The Victor _was originally intended to be just a one-shot?

Somehow it morphed into over 250 pages of elaborate characterization (and chapters full of typos that my spellcheck refused to acknowledge). And from there, a universe was formed, mostly at the request of readers: a quadshot "interlude" was created, as well as a doubleshot "aside," and now—finally—the formal epilogue (also referred to as "the real sequel") has begun. The end is in sight. The story is told.

I also have to note, just because I think it's flattering (if a bit shocking) that I have noticed some of…"lore," for lack of a better word…of _The Victor_ is finding its way into some other fanfiction. I read other "vicfics" (as I affectionately term our collective writings) and discover that in small, minor ways, some of them (certainly not all) are kind of like "coming home," usually in the minor details but sometimes in character interpretation and other areas. It's… disconcerting, sometimes, but it's _always, always _an honor. I never ever thought that _The Victor,_ something I started writing on a whim, would become so well-received and it means a lot to me. Thank you so much for your support in this—it has been a pleasure and a joy to share it with you.

Anyway, the purpose of this post is to let those of you who expressed an interest in the epilogue/sequel/series-of-one-shots know that it has been posted. Below is a summary of the Octoberverse installments (in order) for your perusing pleasure.

_**The Victor. **_Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of "collateral." VC/OC, "Origins"-style, thanks. With plot, character development, and blatant wish fulfillment! Fraught with dangerous romance and, eventually, tons of action. Rated M for language, dark sex, and violence. _Complete._

_**Goes the Spoils: An Interlude.**_ Someone's got a grudge and has decided that the best weapon to use is always a lady. Rated for sex and general mayhem/violence._Complete._

_**The Mouth: An Aside. **_Deadpool double-shot. Siryn, aka Theresa Rourke Cassidy, is a student at the X-mansion. One night she spots a mysterious masked man outside on the X-mansion grounds. A movie rendition of a comic theme. Rated for implied sex, language, and possible squickiness. _Complete._

_**We Don't Believe in Chance. **_This is the end of the line. A series of one-shots: the stories of the peripheral mutants and their perspectives on the relationship between October Morgan and Victor Creed. Rated for language, squick factor, and one (I think?) smutty moment. _In Progress._

I have been working on some non-Octoberverse vicfics, but I don't know if they'll ever get finished. If I post them, I want the characters to be significantly different, so I need to formulate at least some different interpretations of Vic's character, and build from the ground up a new OC for him (I have ideas, but nothing solid). After writing _The Mouth, _I also had a hankering to write a shortfic featuring Jubilation Lee and Wolvie, but I doubt that will happen. I've also been considering re-writing _The Magic Trick,_ which was also originally written on a lark and could be significantly improved, and I happily content with my one-shot _Inevitable,_ which was well-received by a specific few. For right now, however, my focus is on refining the one shots featured in _We Don't Believe in Chance,_ and drawing this incredible adventure to a close.

Thank you, again, for adventuring with me.


	2. Chapter I: The Hunter, Part I

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter I: The Hunter, Part I**

**Rating: M for cussing, violence violence, and sex.**

**Summary: This is a rewrite of the Octoberverse (originally published in May 2009). Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of collateral.**

**Disclaimer: If I could wrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

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When Victor Creed first saw her—face-to-face, real life—he was on a mission to end Dean McQuay's writing career and activism. If Creed was lucky, maybe even his life. The mission was nothing special. If not for what happened later, he might never even have remembered it down the road.

But it did happen. And unlike Logan, no number of bullets—fancy metal alloy or not—could scrub it from his brain.

Dean McQuay was a professor and writer of law. He taught seminars and classes, he published textbooks and pamphlets, and he was a staunch mutant-rights activist. His ties to one October Morgan—a former activist who had become an overnight martyr for something-or-another back in the day—only strengthened his position in the public eye and lent him further credibility.

All of which Victor Creed couldn't have given two shits about, really.

Except for the fact that McQuay's little "movement" had caught the eye of some very important people in the upper echelons of the US government—some very important people who were very invested in keeping things exactly as they were. It wasn't so much that these people were anti-mutant themselves, of course—some of them _were _mutants, though they could pass—but the goal was to distract the wider populace with some archaic argument about "equal rights" while shifting global power dynamics, capital, and resources.

McQuay was threatening that. His radical, nonsectarian left-wing approach to mutant politics was inviting people to consider new possibilities, new answers. And the shadowy recesses of the US government weren't going to allow that to happen—not when the war for and against mutant rights provided such wonderful political theatre.

And so they called in Victor Creed. It had been long enough, they thought, since a civil rights activist had been assassinated—perhaps it would provide a backdrop for even greater public distraction.

Creed didn't care one way or another about the man's work, or his fight for mutant rights, or his attempts to undermine the US government. After all, Creed himself had earned limitless privileges through his work with clandestine segments of the federal government, and even if those agencies should fall apart, Creed would still survive.

He would always survive.

This knowledge of his own immortality made it easy to dismiss pests like McQuay. His work did not affect Creed one way or another, and the feral had long ago learned that the world operated on the theme of 'every animal for himself'.

Currently, however? The government was what kept him in nice digs and powerful cars. He didn't take orders—and hell was paid by anyone who forgot that—but he loved his job.

McQuay lived at 272 North Forest Street, Apartment 6A. He was "best friends"—_how cute,_ Creed sneered—with aforementioned former activist October Morgan, but lived alone. He called himself both a journalist and an anarchocommunist, freelancing columns for major papers and magazines around the globe. Though no Noam Chomsky, McQuay had quite a following, and had published a number of widely-distributed essays and pamphlets. The world was already experiencing more social upheaval than most global leaders were entirely comfortable with—McQuay happened to be living in a time when more people were willing to _listen, _to _question_, and that was bad luck for pretty much everyone.

McQuay also had some sort of mutation that was both a blessing and a curse. Creed was a little unclear on what his strengths were—something about scrambling peoples' brains. Well, Creed had has his brains scrambled before. He'd had his head smashed open with a shovel once, when he was younger, and just a few years back he'd hunted down Jimmy again and found himself with three admantium claws shoved straight through his skull. Having been on the receiving end of a deathblow more than once, Creed figured he could handle anything McQuay dished out.

Plus, McQuay had a weakness. Some mutants did: their mutations gave them great strength in one place, but sometimes the energy funneled into those abilities left them vulnerable in others. McQuay had some sort of series of disorders: bone fragility, craniosynostosis, propotosis, and hydrocephalus. The man had a shunt and had suffered from multiple broken bones in his past. His file said he could probably be killed just by being hit with a truck or shoved down the stairs, but Creed figured they wanted the job done right, which was why they sent him. His job was to end McQuay's work, preferably through more subtle means—blackmail, torture, threats.

However, if that failed, the order was to terminate.

Creed rather hoped for the latter.

So he stalked McQuay, watching him carefully, learning his habits. The man was skinny to the point of gauntness, with one leg that didn't bend right and made him look lopsided. The activist woke up promptly at seven in the morning and ate an egg and a bagel and a glass of orange juice. He wore dark sunglasses over his protruding eyes. Sharply-cut suits. He went to work in a small but clean office on Twelfth Avenue every morning at nine, and went home at three, courtesy of Bus 9G. And when the fragile little man unexpectedly limped six blocks to the library, leaning on his cane and trembling the whole time, Creed was there, following.

Stalking.

Hunting.

He slipped in to the library a few minutes after McQuay, watching as the frail man carefully lowered himself into one of the chairs. A cute librarian paused and stared at Creed over a stack of books on the counter, and he grinned ferally, baring fangs. She jolted and blushed, turning hurriedly back to the books she was checking in. He could smell her fear from where he stood, and he took a moment to savor the scent of it.

And with that inhalation, he caught another scent: feminine, soft, inviting. Almonds—butter. Skin.

"Last week, when I asked you what you wanted me to read this week, do you remember what you asked for?"

He followed the voice, which sounded full of barely-repressed laughter, and peered around one of the columns in the library. There was a sea of children on the floor, mutant and normal alike, intermingled with each other. He could see that some of them had pointed ears, or furred faces, or animalian noses, and some of them were clearly simple homo sapiens.

Hands shot into the air and the young women in the middle of the group smiled, her eyes curling into crescents of laughter. Her hair was a mop of tangled waves, hair more gold and copper than blond, and her eyes were dark and fathomless. She was wearing a white tank-top and black pin-striped shorts, little white heels. Her legs went on forever.

If he hadn't seen the photo of her in McQuay's file, he might not have recognized her. Might not have remembered her. He'd heard her name a few times over the years—there'd been another assassin, name of Gambols, who'd worshiped the ground she walked on. But Creed did not care for rights and politics—his chief concerns were power, and pain—and he'd ignored her till she showed up in his current target's file as an unfortunate attachment. In short, if McQuay's mutant weakness was his fragility, then his human weakness was lifelong friend and former activist, October Morgan.

"Go ahead, Lindsay," the little Miss Morgan said. "Do you remember what you asked for?"

"Romance and dinosaurs, Toby," the little girl said, practically bouncing in her seat on the floor. "We wanted romance and dinosaurs!"

October—Toby—laughed, tossing back her hair out of her eyes. She was a pretty-enough piece of tail, Creed supposed, but he ignored her in favor of watching McQuay, who was staring at her stupidly. Creed could feel a nasty grin begin curling one corner of his mouth. "So you did. Do you think I got what you asked for?"

"No!" the kids chorused loudly. Creed winced. Weren't the brats supposed to be quiet in a library?

"But what do I tell you guys? Marcus?"

A little boy answered. "You said there's a book for every—every _interest,"_ he recited dutifully, grinning. He had freckles and mottled hair that looked like it had been electrocuted.

"That's right. So I brought a book today called _A Lovely Love Story,_ and it's by Edward Monkton."

"Edward Monkton," the children repeated. It was obviously a lesson of some sort, combined with storytime. Creed leaned against the pillar and watched McQuay, watching her. The fucker looked _enraptured._

"The fierce Dinosaur was trapped inside his cage of ice," the Morgan frail read dramatically. The children sat forward, rapt. "Although it was cold, he was happy in there. It was, after all, _his_ cage."

Creed flicked his eyes over to her, watching as she showed the pictures to the children.

"Then along came the Lovely Other Dinosaur," she continued. "The Lovely Other Dinosaur melted the Dinosaur's cage with kind words and loving thoughts."

He snorted at the sentimental nonsense, then sniffed the air again. She _was_ beautiful, and fragile-looking. Her shoulders and legs were golden with hours spent in the sunlight, but the skin of her throat and at the edge of her shirt was so pale and translucent that he could see the blue shadow of her veins.

She might be a fun little distraction while he was on this painfully simple mission. He could fuck her raw in front of McQuay, before maybe ripping out her throat with his teeth. The thought made his cock twitch and he straightened, grinning to himself, fangs denting his lip.

"I like this Dinosaur, thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur," she read. "Although he is fierce, he is also tender, and he is funny. He is also quite clever, though I will not tell him this for now."

Creed watched as one of the little girls with pale, slit-pupiled eyes leaned over and whispered something in a normal boy's ear. The kid blushed like a tomato, but his hand crept across the floor shyly to hold hers. The gesture did not touch Victor Creed. He knew that when the boy's friends teased him later, he would deny it entirely, and say cruel things to the little girl.

"I like this Lovely Other Dinosaur, thought the Dinosaur. She is beautiful, and she is different…and she smells so nice. She is also a free spirit which is a quality I much admire in a dinosaur."

"But he can be so distant and so peculiar at times, thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur. He is also overly fond of things. Are all Dinosaurs so overly fond of things?"

Creed's eyes flickered to McQuay. The skinny man had an expression of utmost peace on his face.

Fucking sick.

"But her mind skips from here to there so quickly, thought the Dinosaur. She is also uncommonly keen on shopping. Are all Lovely Other Dinosaurs so uncommonly keen on shopping?"

Her expressions played over her face as she read, eyes widening, brows furrowing, mouth softening in seriousness or widening in a smile. Creed bit back a growl, realizing his eyes had been drawn back without his noticing.

"I will forgive his peculiarity and his concern for things, thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur. For they are part of what makes him a richly charactered individual," she read. "I will forgive her skipping mind and her fondness for shopping, thought the Dinosaur. For she fills our life with beautiful thoughts and wonderful surprises. Besides, I am not unkeen on shopping either."

Her hair tumbled over her forehead, unruly, and she brushed it back with a delicate and careless hand. Creed could crush that hand, if he wanted.

"Now the Dinosaur and the Lovely Other Dinosaur are old," she recited, turning the book to display the pictures. The children leaned forward. "Look at them. Together they stand on the hill telling each other stories and feeling the warmth of the sun on their backs…

"And that, my friends, is how it is with love," she added, turning the page. "Let us all be Dinosaurs and Lovely Other Dinosaurs together.

"For the sun is warm. And the world is a beautiful place."

She closed the book slowly, chuckling as the kids started chattering inanely.

"Tell me your favorite part. Ummmm…Brianna."

"I like the Lovely Dinosaur's red purse," said a girl, presumably Brianna.

"It was a lovely purse," the Morgan frail agreed. "And…Donald?"

"I liked that the Dinosaur was fierce," said Donald. "And I liked it when the one was dancing. That was a good picture."

"I liked the part with the flowers and the stars melting the ice!" squealed another little girl. "And the part with all the dinosaurs hugging!"

"What did we say about raising hands?" October reproved gently. "But yes, Sandra, I agree. The flowers and stars were pretty. What do you guys think about all the hugging dinosaurs? Joan?"

"Dinosaurs need hugs too," said Joan.

"Very true. What else? Rahn?"

"You can love someone even if they like shopping," a little dark-skinned boy answered, wrinkling his nose.

October laughed. "That's right. Okay, so think about the people you know who are different from you, or like different things from you. What does that say about them? Ummm…Antonio?"

A pudgy boy with straw-colored hair lowered his hand. "I think it means you should be nice to people even if they're different, like if they're fat, or they don't like hockey, or look funny, because you could maybe melt their cage or they could maybe be your Lovely Other Dinosaur."

The smile that curled over her mouth was ineffably soft. "I think that I the perfect way of stating it, Antonio. Does anyone else have any other ideas?"

The kids were quiet, a few of them whispering amongst each other.

"Very well," the Morgan woman said, smiling indulgently. "What shall I find for you next week? Umm…who hasn't chosen yet? Darla, put down your hand—you chose three weeks back; I remember. Um…Devon?"

"Tigers," the boy said firmly, his eyes lighting up.

She smiled. "Tigers it shall be. And…Marcie?"

The girl named Marcie smiled shyly. "Flowers," she whispered.

A smile broke out beatifically on the woman's face. Creed rolled his eyes.

"Flowers it is then. How lovely, Marcie."

The kids scrabbled to their feet, a clutter of high-pitched conversations, and shouts of "Bye, Toby!" and "See you next week, Toby!" ringing out over the library floor.

Creed watched as McQuay started to rise, and he moved over to the man stealthily, gripping his shoulders firmly. McQuay choked out a gasp and sat heavily in the seat, his frail bones bending and bowing under the pressure of the assassin's hands.

"Hello, friend," Creed purred mockingly. "Let's talk a bit, shall we?" He squeezed the man's shoulders painfully.

"Who are you?" McQuay demanded, a little breathless from the pain, turning his dark glasses up to look at the main. Creed could see the faint shape of the man's eyes behind the glasses, and he watched them widened as he took in the size of his aggressor.

"The name's Creed," the big man said conversationally, baring his teeth in a savage grin. "And let's just keep this quiet, okay, kid? Recent evidence aside—" he gestured briefly to the dissipating crowd of children— "I always thought libraries were meant to be quiet places."

"Dean!" A feminine voice rang out. Both men turned, watching the blond woman jog toward them. "It's so good to see you. I'm so glad you made it! Who's your friend?" she added expectantly, turning to Creed and rocking on her heels.

McQuay opened his mouth to answer but Victor squeezed his shoulder warningly. The bones ground together dangerously, making the man's lips tighten and grow white. "Hey, princess," Dean said after a moment, his voice a frightened rasp. "This is—"

"The name's Creed," Victor repeated, a dangerous smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He flashed a fang. "Victor Creed."

She didn't flinch, her eyes smiling, her face open and welcoming. She thrust out a hand to him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Creed. Do you work with Dean-o?"

"Dean-o?" Creed repeated, smirking. He took her hand in his and engulfed it entirely, careful to give her a clear view of his claws. She was so fine-boned in his hand. He was unmoved by her fragility—it only made him scornful and dismissive. If he'd maybe been at war, or angry and alone and looking to kills something, he might have yanked her by the arm and thrown her against a wall, cutting through her shorts till he could thrust inside her while she squirmed and sobbed and screamed against him. As it was, for the moment, she meant nothing to him. His mission was McQuay.

She laughed softly, dropping her voice to a more library-appropriate level. "We—well, I—call him that sometimes because he's always listening to the Rat Pack. You know how it is." She grinned. "So? Do you work with him?"

He flicked a glance down toward McQuay and grinned. "You could say we're talking business," he conceded, reluctantly releasing her hand. He let his nails scrape lingerly over her wrist and she sucked in a breath at the slight sting, but said nothing. Didn't even flinch, really. It was disconcerting. His lips twitched on a barely-stifled growl and he took a step forward, looming over her. Her smile faded a touch and she took a half-step back. A faint whiff of apprehension caught his nose, combined with the faint, underlying fragrance of something musky and sweet.

"I'm new in town," he added without thinking, tilting his head to eye her like prey. He could see the shadow of her cleavage from this angle. He thought about rolling his hand over her breast, squeezing as she struggled.

"Oh," she said faintly, finishing her step back. The underlying fragrance grew stronger, along with the apprehension. Then, her brow furrowing in concern, she asked, "Do you have a place to stay?"

"Toby!" McQuay rapped out in alarm, his voice cracking.

And the thought that had been growing like a cancer in Victor Creed's brain suddenly bloomed in a flurry of bloodshed and mockery. Perhaps the little Miss Morgan had a purpose after all. He might not have thought of it if McQuay hadn't sounded quite so horrified.

His smile widened viciously. "Actually, I'm between locations right now," he lied easily, flicking his tongue over his fangs. It made him happy that he hadn't given into the temptation to crush her hand in his grip a moment before.

"I have an extra room," she offered guilelessly. "It's not much—it'll be tight for you, I imagine—"

He grinned ferally at the image that phrase brought up. His cock twitched again in his jeans.

"—but you're welcome to it."

"Um, princess? Mr Creed has plenty of more comfortable accommodations at his disposal," McQuay broke in sharply. "And your apartment is small enough as it is."

October scoffed. "Any friend of yours is a friend of mine, Dean-o," she said firmly, leaving no room for argument.

_Kitty has claws,_ Creed thought with delight. It would be fun to use his own on her. Cut her to ribbons. Threaten her with a claw to her—

"He's not my—"

"I'd be happy to take you up on your offer," Creed cut in smoothly. "I have some business to wrap up with Dean-o here—" he clapped a hand loudly against the frail man's back and October jolted with wide-eyed empathy for her friend "—but I'd be happy to meet you at your apartment. Where do you live?"

Her smile was scintillating. "12501 Lakeshore Avenue, at the Generous Suites apartment building. I'm in number forty-three. You can walk there from here—it's just four blocks east, by the Lakeshore Bakery. I'll be waiting."

He almost licked his lips in anticipation. "I appreciate it, Miss—ah—"

She smiled. "October Morgan, but everyone calls me Toby," she offered. She turned on her heel, collecting up a ruffled purse and tossing a smile over her shoulder. "It'll be nice to have some company," she added mildly, then blew a kiss at McQuay. "Thanks for coming, Dean. Are we still on for dinner Thursday?"

"Absolutely," he replied weakly from his chair. He looked utterly defeated, and the taste of triumph was already thick in Victor's mouth. McQuay rose slowly, enveloping her in a careful hug while Creed watched suspiciously, waiting for the thin man to say something stupid. He didn't, though, and in a matter of moments they were watching her walk away.

Dean McQuay leaned heavily on his cane. "What do you want?" he asked quietly. He sounded empty, hollowed-out.

"I want," Creed replied silkily, "for you to stop writing your shitty little subversions." He paused, watching her ass as she stepped out the library doors and disappeared. She was a tight little thing. He turned a sharp smile back to McQuay. "Cut off your contracts. Stop freelancing for your leftist rags. You need to disappear off the face of the planet, and I never wanna hear your mouthy shit again."

"You're a mutant," McQuay protested. "Why do you want to stop me? Don't you understand the importance of—of destroying a system which not only profits from but is _founded_ on the oppression of everyone who is different? The oppression of—of us, among others?"

Creed grinned. "Equality won't keep me in fancy cars and raw steaks, asshole."

McQuay clenched his jaw. "So what'll you do if I don't stop? Kill me?"

The bigger man chuckled. "Stupid question," he reproved. "But I'll answer it anyway, 'cause I'm nice like that." His grin was hard and sharp. "I'm gonna be living with your gal Friday over there till I know you're being good. You got me? I imagine it'll take a month or two to cut off all your contacts, but if you try to get word out—if you fuck up—then she pays."

He licked his teeth, eyeing the door she'd passed through with speculative glee. "And believe me, I'll enjoy making little Miss Morgan pay. There are a hundred ways I can hurt her, and a few of them involve that tight little ass of hers—"

McQuay whitened, and Creed paused mid-smirk and shrugged. "And if you still don't get it, and I hafta kill her, I'll make sure you watch me do it." His eyes narrowed. "And believe me, I'm _very_ imaginative."

His shoulders slumped, and Creed rolled his eyes. _Too easy. _He'd thought there might be a fight. He thought he might get to have fun.

But then McQuay straightened, and he half-turned toward Creed and pulled off his sun glasses. There wasn't much that startled Creed these days, but he was intrigued by the man's protruding eyes: there was no white or iris or pupil, just wide orbs of mercuric silver. They flashed like twin mirrors in the sunlight.

"Are you a feral, Mr. Creed? Nice regenerative factor?"

The larger man was silent, watching him.

"I thought so," McQuay said after a moment, his voice resigned. "Did you know Toby and I used to go to school together?"

Creed raised one eyebrow and flashed a fang. His gaze was predatory, speculative.

"Listen to me," McQuay said tightly. "I'm going tell you how we met. We had math class together in sixth grade. We never talked. She was—she was always like she is now. Dresses clean, looks like a cute piece of—of _fluff_. But she didn't hang out with the cheerleaders and the jocks. She hung out with the—the goth kids and the punks and the nerds. She stuck with them, and she was loyal. Me, I didn't hang out with anyone. I didn't try. I'd had to leave my last school because people were pricks, and I wasn't gonna make the same mistake at this school. So I didn't talk to anyone. Especially _her._" He jerked a thumb back in the direction October had gone, and Creed wondered why the little man thought he cared. "I had no time for _princesses."_ He spat the word, and Creed suddenly understood that once upon a time, it had been an insult.

"Then one day, Toby was riding home with her mom. It was early fall of freshman year, still warm out. Three years of school together and we never talked. And these jocks started picking on me. Knocked my books out of my hands. Knocked me down. Told me they'd heard I break easily. They started kicking me. Not too hard—I think they were afraid still—but I could feel things cracking. And somewhere through the fog I hear someone yelling through rolled down windows—_Stop the car! Stop the car!_ And I look up, and here's Princess October Morgan, pulling back her fist and punching Derek Thompson in the gut as hard as she could."

The silver-eyed man paused and shook his head at the memory. "Thompson was easily four times her size. Big guy. Not like you, of course, but huge compared to Toby. Her fist ran into him the way a bird runs into a speeding car's windshield. He didn't even flinch. He just stopped, and stared at her, like he was wondering where the hell she'd come from. And she pulls back her fist and gets ready to hit him again. And she said something to him—my head was too scrambled to even register it—and he just _left,_ like he didn't know what to do. And she put me in the back seat of her mom's car and let me put my head in her lap and took me home and patched me up as well as she could."

"Is this going somewhere, McQuay?" Creed asked, polishing his claws on his coat and making a display of letting them lengthen. "Beyond making her your personal fuckin' messiah, I mean."

The crippled man scowled. "Yes. I'll tell you where." He leaned closer . "One of the things my mutation allows me to do is mess up people's heads, Mr. Creed. Your brain is like loose jelly in your skull, and I can shake it up like cottage cheese. It's an earthquake in your _brain._ You'll be drooling all over yourself. And once you finally start getting back to normal, thanks to your nifty little re-gen factor, I'll just mess you up again. I'll keep you like that _forever."_

Creed growled and leaned over, his hand gripping Dean's on the handle of the cane. The fine bones cracked audibly and the little man's face whitened, but to his credit, he didn't make a sound.

"I don't take kindly to threats, you little shit," the feral said coldly.

"It's not a threat," the younger man replied evenly, despite the obvious pain in his hand. "It's a consequence. You be nice to her, and I don't care. Be polite. Buy her flowers if you want to. But hurt her, and I make every moment of your eternal life a living hell."

Creed sneered. "I've taken down scarier things than you before, little man," he mocked, tightening his big fist over McQuay's once more. "Bigger men than you have tried and failed."

The man's lips were virtually white. "Be that as it may," he choked out, "I assure you there's a first time for everything."

Creed scoffed, releasing McQuay's hand with a snort. The frail man stumbled, grabbing his can with his other hand and freeing the one that had been virtually crushed in Creed's grasp.

"It'll be funny to watch you try your hand at me," Creed jeered. "Especially since you can't use that one anymore." He grinned and winked. "Don't worry, Imma keep an eye on your pretty princess. I think I'll each her how to kneel." He laughed aloud at the furious expression on McQuay's face before slapping the man hard across the back in a false gesture of camaraderie_. "_Wait and see. You just do what I tell you, shithead, and everything'll be just _fine."_ He grinned on his way out, mock-saluting Dean McQuay. "I'll be keeping in touch."


	3. Chapter I: The Hunter, Part II

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter I: The Hunter, Part II**

**Rating: M for cussing, violence violence, and sex.**

**Summary: This is a rewrite of the Octoberverse (originally published in May 2009). Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of collateral.**

**Disclaimer: If I could wrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Creed reached her apartment scarcely five minutes after she did. He could tell from her fragrance, still floating down the hall. She smelled like almonds, and warm skin that he could cut through like butter.

He paused at the door marked forty-three. Someone had scratched into the surface of the door: _Courtesy of the FoH. _The carved wounds were deep and deliberate, cutting through the veneer and into the core.

His lips curled back. Though he kept himself well-educated for his own benefit—and for the purposes of knowing his employers—he didn't favor any specific set of politics. Nevertheless, the Friends of Humanity got under his skin _just enough_ to make him itch. He'd like to pull the intestines out of the lot of them—had, in fact, once popped an activist's eyeball like a ripe grape, just for the pleasure of it.

There was something to be said for not killing someone, and just letting them live with the horror of seeing their own eyeball explode.

It was clear, however, that the Morgan frail hadn't even tried to buff the mark away, though it had likely been carved there to piss her off, back when she herself was a big name in the movement. Could be she'd kept it in some fit of defiance, which was both promising and irritating to a man like Creed. He bared his teeth at the deep, uneven gouges, more annoyed than he rightly understood. Confusion—rare for him, since he was a smart bastard—redoubled his anger.

He tested the knob—she'd left it unlocked. Foolish frail. His anger funneled into his smile and his already-flinty eyes turned colder, more calculating. Creed opened the door wide and stalked in, silent without even trying, and took in the surroundings.

The place was clean and pretty—quaint. He sneered. The kitchen table looked nice on first glance, but a second sweep of his gaze revealed that the leg had been broken and was being held up by two books: a copy of _The Iliad _and Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein._ Her keys were on the counter by the sink; he pocketed them deftly. Creed guessed the couch was old: it had been carefully covered by a chenille blanket, and though the curtains were clean white linen, they had frayed a bit at the hems. The fire escape and the space by the window were full of big pink flowers that filled the air with pollen and musk.

On a shelf over an old box-TV, there was a cluster of photos, mostly of three much-younger girls. They had different hair and body-types, but their mouths and smiles were the same. Something around their eyes—the way they curled up and sparkled—put him in mind of the Morgan frail herself. Sisters, mostlike. They looked stupid-happy. Another snapshot, this one blown up large, showed all four of 'em. They were all but climbing over each other, clearly laughing, their eyes curved into crescents of mirth. Seemed even the collateral had collateral, didn't it?

He liked to get to know things before he tortured 'em, killed 'em. Gave him more ammo, but also made the killing sweeter. Fuck, but that big picture—the one of the four of them—made his skin _crawl_. All of those privileged, pleased-as-punch faces. Dark, starry eyes. They were fat-cheeked, plump and soft, just waiting to whine. He felt his lips twitch in a sneer even as he reached out with one extended claw to tip the largest photo face-down in a gesture he didn't entirely understand. The frame clicked against the shelf gently, and he felt a kind of relief with it hidden. Silently he turned away, loping toward the hall.

The apartment was tiny, but so open and airy that Creed didn't feel the claustrophobia that usually struck when he was confined. Nevertheless, his claws itched and he found himself wanting to tear the place apart. Sunshine, flowers, photos of smiling sisters—it made his teeth grit so tightly that enamel flaked onto his tongue, bitter and dusty.

He moved down the hall. There was a bathroom, and two tiny spare-rooms that were more likely intended to be closets, each nearly flooded by a double-bed apiece. For the sisters when they visited, he guessed. The thought made his lip curl.

He could hear the sound of fabric rustling and humming in the far room, and leaned in the doorway when he reached it. His head brushed the top of the doorframe, and the breadth of his shoulders nearly filled the opening. He ducked, crossing his arms and lounging, watching through half-hooded eyes as she spread fresh white sheets on the queen-sized bed, humming something under her breath. It was fucking domestic as hell, which set his teeth on edge with something like contempt and rage. Still, when she twitched her hips, his eyes were drawn to the curve of her ass.

_Fuck._

Never mind McQuay—he might make use of her anyway as a warning, have at 'er till she was broken and no good to him anymore. He briefly entertained himself with the thought of flinging her on the crisp white sheets, pinning her wrists as she begged for mercy and wriggled, pressing her soft breasts against him. She'd be trying to escape his claws, and he'd stain the sheets _red._

Oblivious, the frail straightened, tossing back her tangled mass of brassy curls. They trailed down to the small of her back and he thought about grabbing a handful of that hair and pulling it back while he shoved his cock in her mouth. He grinned nastily, testing one fang with the tip of his tongue.

_No biting, or I'll bite back. I promise mine will hurt more._

She turned to the doorway and choked back a startled yelp when she saw him there, dropping to a crouch with her fist pressed into her sternum. Her pulse spiked. Her breathing came in gasps. The room was suddenly flooded with the scent of her fear.

He savored it and grinned. What a flavor. "Scare ya?" he purred.

She laughed then, breathlessly, still folded in on herself in a defensive crouch. His grin collapsed and he narrowed his eyes at the unexpected response. The beginnings of a warning growl gathered in his throat.

"Definitely did," she gasped out, her voice still reedy with fear and laughter. She stood, and he could see her knees were shaky. When she extended a hand to him, her fingers only trembled a little. His eyes flicked back to her smile, which was uncomfortably warm and open. He tried not to snarl—not yet. "I'm glad you found the place all right."

He smirked, then. He wasn't able to hold that one back. _I could follow your scent anywhere, _he gloated a little savagely. Instead of saying it, he shook her hand, but couldn't stop himself from squeezing just a bit harder than he knew he should've. Her face paled a bit, and something strange happened to her scent—it deepened, thickened—but she only kept smiling and waited for him to withdraw.

Then she turned her back to him, gesturing widely to the tiny room. "This is the master bedroom. Obviously it'll be a little tight for you," she turned back and eyed his shoulders with a dry grin, "but it's the best I can offer for free."

She licked her lips and he tasted her apprehension. It eased some of the wrath he'd been carrying since seeing the stupid photos of her little family, and he let a bitter grin curl his mouth. She had to crane her neck back at a ridiculous angle to look up at him, and so he leaned forward just a bit—to make it harder for her.

"Do you have any luggage?" she asked, her voice suddenly reedy. He wondered if she felt small, standing so close to such a big animal. He took a step forward, pretending to look around the apartment while moving into her personal space. She took a step back and he bit down on a hard grin.

"Naw," he said calmly, after a moment of silence that he could tell unsettled her. "S'pose I'll go buy anything I need tomorrow."

She flushed a little and took a step back. He turned, facing away from her, but stepped backward into her space, herding her toward the wall. _Cat and mouse,_ he thought, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"I don't know—if there are a lot of shops around here that would sell your size," she said from behind him, sounding apologetic. He stepped backward again, then heard her bump into the wall. "Not at decent prices, anyway."

He turned suddenly, leaning a forearm against the wood paneling so he could loom close over her.

"I can afford it," he purred. She stared up at him, eyes wide and dark. Her apprehension was palpable—he could curl his tongue around it. He held his other hand in front of him, examining the calluses and sinews as he let his claws lengthen, slowly and deliberately.

"Wh-who are you?" the girl asked suddenly, her voice very thin.

_Idiot frail. Now she asks._ Whatever was happening to her scent made his mouth water and his cock twitch. Oh, she was terrified, and he liked that, but there was something under it too. Whatever it was, he wanted more. He leaned in closer, crowding her. He could feel her body heat. Scared, trembling little Miss Morgan. Her skin would fall away like cut silk.

"I mean, I know you said your name was Creed, but—"

He grinned, baring his fangs at her and neatly nicking his own lip, showing off how deadly those teeth were. He leaned in, breathing in her fragrance.

"I'm a killer," he purred.

Inexplicably, the tension seemed to drain out of her. She seemed—relieved. Not surprised. "Oh," she said, her voice suddenly clear. "You were sent to kill me?"

He drew back, frowning. The sudden easing of her muscles was unexpected. Confusion crept into his throat and he shoved it back down, baring his teeth instead. "No," he growled, running one claw delicately over her throat. Her pulse jumped a bit, but she stayed still, and he glowered. Dissatisfied with her response, he drew his claw over her again, pulling blood to the surface this time. She trembled and the scent of her fear spiked even as the blood trickled over her collarbone in a thread of crimson, staining the low white collar of her tank top. _There we go_, he thought, soaking up the scent of her with a grin.

"Not for you," he corrected. "But I might do it anyway."

Still, the fear wasn't _right. _Not strong enough, and tempered.

He grunted. "M'here for your good friend, Dean-o." He lay his palm on her sternum, smearing the blood into her skin, then dragged it down and to one side. Her breathing hitched and she stood very still when he dug his fingers into her hip, slowly letting his claws lengthen. He could _feel _the whimper rising in her, the way she held herself tense as he punctured first the denim of her jeans, then drew blood from her skin. "You're just…collateral," he purred. "'F Dean-o doesn't do what I say, I get to break all your bones…one by one." He squeezed and she tried not to move. His grin widened, feral, when her fear grew sharper, overwhelming the confusing, musky scent that he couldn't place.

"I have your keys," he stated mildly, his tone deceptive. "You left them on the counter. Do you have a cell phone?"

She shook her head mutely and he stared at her, eyes narrow, as he tried to figure out if she was lying. She smelled clean of deceit, though. Still:

"If I find you're fibbing to me, I'll cut your face to ribbons and leave you alive," he informed her.

She gasped when he gripped her arm and whipped her around, yanking her through the door and toward the phone he'd seen in the kitchen. He grinned, still dragging her—he liked to be slow, to play with his toys, but sometimes speed could help keep 'em off-balance, keep 'em guessing. She stumbled after him, her legs a tangle beneath her. The clumsiness both annoyed and pleased him.

The phone was anchored in the wall. He pulled the receiver from it and held it out to her. "Call your work," he ordered. "Tell 'em you're taking an extended leave of absence."

She looked confused, dazed. "I can't—"

He rolled his eyes. "I can keep coming up with new and interesting threats, but it gets boring after a while." He leaned in, licked his incisors. "Soon I'll just skip the part where I tell you what's what, and go straight to bit where I tear you apart."

She lifted one pale hand, quivering, and took the receiver, moving toward the phone to press the large numbers on the cradle. He didn't move, and she had to sidle between him and the counter, her body crushed against his as she dialed.

"Mmm," he purred. "That's _nice_."

She shot him a surprisingly powerful glare and he almost laughed with the force and the shock of it. He hadn't expected that little spark. She might prove more entertaining than he thought. Might keep up fighting him when he fucked her, for longer than most.

"Hello? Hi, Jocelyn. It's Toby."

He was impressed by the control in her voice. He hadn't expected that. "I've had a—ah, an emergency, of sorts. I need to take my vacation time." A pause. "Um, possibly all of it. Will that be okay?" Another pause, and then—to Creed's utter astonishment—she chuckled warmly. _Naturally. _As though she weren't standing sandwiched nice and warm between a wall and a killer.

Fury drummed through him. His hand skated up and he wrapped his claws in her hair, yanking her head back. Her breathing hitched, and she spared him a glance, but it was more irritated than frightened.

"Well, yes, I know I haven't taken any of my time," she went on mildly, addressing the person on the line. "I understand if that's not going to work for the organization. If you have to lay me off—yes, yes—oh, well, _thank_ you. I'll be back as soon as I possibly can, and I appreciate it. Okay—of course. Thanks, Jocelyn. I'll see you when I get back. Take care." She hung the phone up gently, then turned to glower at him.

_Next time you dismiss me like that, I'll chew your pretty little tongue right out of your mouth, _he wanted to say. She'd done what he'd wanted—raised no suspicions on the phone—but the _ease_ with which she done it, the apparent lack of terror, somehow made his shoulders tense and his bones itch.

_Who is in control of this situation?_ he demanded silently, the words a mental growl.

Furious still, and silky-dangerous with it, he leaned in closer. The feel of her body against his was worth relishing, and he felt her pulse pick up, smelled her fear spike. Without taking his eyes off hers, he reached out with one clawed hand, grasped the phone station that was anchored there, and yanked it directly out of the wall. October gasped and flinched as plaster and dust flew everywhere.

"We can do this two ways," he said quietly, his face set in a mock-serious expression. "You can be a good girl and do what I say and pray every night that McQuay pulls through for you. Or you can fight me, try to sneak out, try to tell someone what's going on. In which case, I kill them, and then make you live in pain for a _very. Long. Time._"

He paused, then leaned his face in against her throat. She grew very still, and very tense. Her scent was full of fear and that denser scent, lower and richer, and he lingered over the delicate skin. Her breath was so shallow he almost didn't hear it. After a moment, he opened his mouth, let his hot breath and teeth scrape on her flesh.

"I kind of hope ya choose the latter," he rumbled with a grin.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Thirty-two hours later, and little Miss Morgan had yet to sustain more than a scratch or mild bruise. He was frustrated_, _and _bored_—he had been hoping she'd give him an excuse to hurt her. Ensuring McQuay's cooperation was his primary objective…but that did not preclude him roughing her up a bit.

He woke up, sliding into his black pants for the third day running, and moved to the kitchen to browse the fridge. The frail had nothing of substance in her goddam apartment—nothing but hot pockets and cereal, as far as he could tell. He'd devoured the extra hamburger she'd had tucked in a back corner of her freezer, but he was eager for some real meat: steak, porkchops, lamb. Also beer, because apparently all she had lying around was some shitty fruit-tea and soymilk.

He grunted, and slammed that fridge hard enough that the lone jar of pickles rattled in the door. He'd rather hunt than buy meat, but there was a sad lack of animals in the city, and he needed more clothes anyway. He'd spotted a place a couple blocks back where he could order pieces tailored to fit his unique proportions, and a butcher's on the way. The thought of a barely-grilled steak made his stomach growl and his mouth water. The meat still red, a little bloody—fuck. Delicious. It was a miracle he'd survived the last few days without gutting the Morgan frail on principle.

_Hot pockets. Fer fuck's sake._

Still, he wouldn't go till she woke up, so he could remind her of the rules.

He leaned over the back of the couch, staring at her. He'd discovered quickly that first night that she was adamant against sleeping in either of the beds in the spare rooms—two double-bed that almost swallowed the tiny spaces they'd been crammed into. _They're uncomfortable,_ she'd snapped at him finally. _I'd rather take the floor._

He'd been tempted to make her do so, right at the foot of his bed like a dog. The thought aroused him. Part of him wondered why the hell she'd offered him the big bed in the first place, if the little ones were so uncomfortable, but he pushed the thought aside. He would have taken it anyway, whether she offered it or not.

_I'll hear you if you wake up at all,_ he'd warned her. _If I think for a second you're trying to run, I'll catch you and break your ankles with my bare hands so you can't run again. And then, just for security's sake, you'll have to sleep with me._ He'd bared his teeth in a contemplative smirk, and she'd paled a little, that delicious scent of fear spiking. _I'll have to keep you under me, so I know if you try to move._

Otherwise, they had barely spoken. Of course, Creed had no problem with that. As far as he was concerned, frails like October Morgan were only good for one thing.

He had to admit, though—the way she carried herself, in her fear, was unexpected. She generally curled up somewhere out of his way, warming her hands on a cup of tea, her big eyes drinking in every flicker of the leaves on the lilies, every tightening of his muscles and flash of his fangs. Creed wasn't prone to whimsy, but more than once he had caught himself wondering if even his claws could reach her through the complicated web of thought she'd wound around herself. He had the feeling her brain never stopped—that it worked busily, like a hungry little spider, connecting point A to point B with tenuous threads of light. In general, he scowled hatefully at her while flipping through the TV channels, waiting for her to say _something_, to get in his way, just once.

Now she wasn't thinking anything, though. She lay there on the couch, looking vulnerable, one palm resting upward next to her face, fingers slightly curled. During the day she seemed hyperaware—all that constant thinking—but for right now he'd bet that she didn't even have any slight vestige of primitive instinct, anything telling her that she all but had a predator at her throat.

He leaned closer over the back of the couch, thinking about these two things, grinning harshly. To frighten her awake—to hear her pulse pick up, watch her eyes go wide, feel her breath catch—well, the thought made him chuckle. He reached for her roughly, claws extended, but somewhere in the distance between him and her he found his fingers softening. Instead of the terrorizing grip he'd meant to clamp on her throat, he reached down with one finger, scraping a light, almost teasing line up her arm. A faint streak followed his claw, turning red and raising after a moment. She only shifted sleepily, and his claw nicked deeper, drawing blood.

No sense of self-preservation, whatsoever.

He rolled his eyes and gripped her shoulder tightly, shaking her roughly. "Wake up, frail," he snarled, jostling her. She twisted into her pillow, mumbling, and he grabbed a handful of hair and tugged sharply.

"Mmm?" she asked blearily, rolling on her back to face him. Her eyes opened slowly, delicately smudged on the upper lids with make-up, and she smiled, arching her back and uncurling her body as she stretched.

_She smiled._

He blinked, and his hand loosened. The tangled knots of her curls slid heavily from his claws, and he found himself staring as a series of joints popped and snapped in her from her wrists to her ankles. She was wearing a thin white tank-top of ribbed fabric, with skinny little straps over her shoulders, and her heavy breasts pressed against the pale textured fabric. He could see the pink shadows of her nipples through the cloth.

She looked like a cat showing its belly. She looked like something surrendering, and not minding the surrender.

_Why?_

She crumpled in on herself once her langourous stretch was complete, then smiled again. "Morning, sunshine," she mumbled sleepily.

He stared at her incredulously. Was the woman an idiot?

"Do I look like a 'sunshine' to you?" he rumbled, furious.

She stretched again, her wrists crossing above her head, popping the fine bones there yet again. He thought of her sprawled on the bed in the back room, her wrists secured overhead while she arched and pleaded. He thought about how she wasn't there right now, underneath him, and it made him even angrier.

"Mmmmh," she mumbled, sounding at the height of physical satisfaction each time her tiny bones snapped into place.

The sound made him _want._

He told himself it was the snapping joints.  
That the sound of the bones clicking against each other made the predator in him salivate.

But _fuck, _her _moan._

He was appalled. His hand shot downward and he gripped her jaw sharply. She yelped as he pulled her upright by her face, his fingers digging into the skin and bone. "Listen to me, little Miss Morgan." The words were low, a pleasurable purr of a threat running through them. "I'm gonna step out, get some clothes. Get some goddam decent food." His grip loosened, almost without him noticing, and his thumb stroked over the side of her jaw thoughtlessly. Her skin was velvety, he noted vaguely, and her jawbone was fragile by his standards. He could snap the pretty thing.

When he spoke, his voice was softer, but not kinder. If anything, he was more menacing in this feigned intimacy.

"I'm gonna check on our little friend," he murmured low, a sneer curling his lip. His eyes weren't on hers though: they tracked the path of his thumb, tracing her jaw with dangerous and deceptive gentleness. "I think you should use the rest of the morning to pray he's doing what he's supposed to, don'tcha think?"

She nodded mutely, eyes wide once more, her fear flooding through his senses. Clearly, she just hadn't been entirely awake before. She hadn't realized who she was greeting so sweetly, so welcomingly.

For a moment he felt a flare of rage, thinking of who she might have woken up with that smile and those words. '_Morning, sunshine.__ Who'd had that? Who'd had the fucking __right __to have that, to wake up to it? To wrap themselves in her hair and her warmth and her crackling bones and her __stupid__ good mornings?_

_He __hated __her._

He shoved her face away from him, and she tumbled back onto the couch, the pillows. "Good," he snarled. "Don't leave, don't try to contact anyone, and don't do anything stupid."

She nodded again.

"That's a good frail," he sneered, and swept out the door, grabbing his coat with her keys in the pocket.

It didn't take him long to get measured and place his orders for pants. They promised him they'd be done in the next two days, and in the meantime he purchased a couple shirts. They would be too tight, but once he cut off the sleeves, he wouldn't feel restricted by them.

When he stopped by North Forest Avenue and slipped into McQuay's apartment, he found the mutant in the midst of stacks of papers.

"You doin' what I told you?" Creed asked, his voice making the fragile man jump.

McQuay scowled. "Are you being nice to Toby?" he shot back. "Because somehow I doubt you're holding up your end of the bargain. She's a sweet, sweet girl, and she's had a rough life—be nice to her."

Creed shrugged and grinned. "All things considered, she's holding up well," he mocked darkly, leaning on McQuay's desk. "So what are these, Crip?"

The man rolled his eyes and picked up a letter, waving it in the larger mutant's face. "Resignations," he snapped. "Apology letters."

The savage smile widened. "Atta boy. Now, tell me, friend, what security do I have that you won't turn back to your old ways once I'm gone? Maybe I should take the frail with me."

"Don't even think it," Dean hissed back, sounding awfully fierce for a man so weak. Creed roared with laughter, throwing his head back at the smaller man's bravado.

"Brilliant," Creed said. "You know somebody'll be following up with each of these bastards and confirming this shit," he added.

"It's confidential information," McQuay scoffed, and Creed grinned even wider.

"I have resources, little man. Don't think there's anything you can get away with." He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. "And if you step one broken toe outta line, I'll _know,_ my tiny friend. And your frail will pay the price."

Blood rushed into McQuay's face. "She's not _mine,"_ he spat harshly, and the assassin chuckled darkly.

"Not for lack of trying though, eh?" he jeered, turning his back to McQuay and heading for the door. "I'll be checking in," he added, echoing his earlier statement. He ducked and grinned as a glass bottle whizzed past where his head had been and shattered against the doorframe. Creed turned, grinning and _tsk_ing as he backed out the door. "Violence solves nothing, bud. Don't worry, I'll take it out of little Miss Morgan's hide."

"Wait!—" McQuay shouted after him, but he was too slow. Creed was already striding away, chuckling under his breath and slamming the door shut behind him. The larger mutant stood for a moment in the sunshine, bearing his teeth in a hard grin and gazing up at the sky, scratching his chest with lengthened claws.

"I _love_ this job."


	4. Chapter I: The Hunter, Part III

**Title: The Victor**

**Chapter I: The Hunter, Part III**

**Rating: M for foul language, violence, and sexual content.**

**Summary: This is a rewrite of the Octoberverse (originally published in May 2009). Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of collateral.**

**Disclaimer: If I could wrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

He ran the streets for a while. It seemed like a week's worth of energy was humming through his bones, waiting to be burned. _Eager _to be burned. He hadn't realized he was so twitchy, so on-edge. He thought of her while he sprinted across the rooftops, then stalked the streets. He half-hoped she tried to escape while he was gone. There was an allure in thought of hunting her down, preying on her, making her pay. He tried to imagine how he would do it—let the idea of it filter through his head—but they stalled and sputtered soon after he thought about catching her. He would start to imagine slicing into her belly, but inevitably his thoughts would turn to the line of her legs, the slope of her ribs, the cracking of her joints as she arched and popped. It didn't make sense, and the frustration goaded him into running and stalking for far longer than he'd intended. It seemed to take ages before he'd calmed, and it had taken gutting a couple of Marines behind a bar—stupid fuckers had tried to start a brawl, buzzing on alcohol and the systematically-cultivated sense of hostility they felt toward anyone who was different—before he felt his tension ease.

Afterward, he loaded his credit card with groceries: thick bacon, thick steaks. Porkchops. Lamb. He debated vodka but settled on beer—his regenerative factor kept him from getting drunk anyway, and he was in the mood for the bitterly nostalgic flavor of hops.

He scaled the fire escape outside the Morgan frail's apartment, bags of meat and beer slouching in his arms. There was a hum of anticipation in his chest: would she have tried to escape? Would he get a chance to chase her down, rough her up?

He couldn't say what it was, but something about her smell (almonds, honey, butter, skin) and something about her little bird-boned body (the fragility of it) made him want her running from him, made him want to catch her, made him want her underneath him. That part was normal, to an extent—normal for him, leastwise. But there was something about her that set his teeth on edge, too, in a different way. That pretty little photo of her and her sisters—that had pissed him right off. He couldn't say why, and he didn't want to think about it. Her stupid sleep-addled smile this morning, too: he had wanted to rip it right off her face with his claws. He always liked violence and mayhem, of course, but something in this felt…personal. He'd like her to fuck up so he could gut her—and at the same time, thinking on it too long only made him feel a little tight in his ribs, a little sick.

The unfamiliar queasiness only made him angrier, and when he peered through the open-glass window on the fire-escape door—half-eager for her to be gone so he could hunt her and kill her, and half-resenting it already—he stopped short on seeing her there.

She was sitting on the countertop, smooth legs swinging as she munched on some cereal, her eyes fastened on the idiot box. There was a silver bracelet on her wrist—he realized it was the same one he'd been seeing for days, a piece she never took off—and the bright letters and charms flashed in the light. The table was covered in glossy photos and colored papers—she'd clearly been up to something all day. The TV was blaring, and the windows were swung wide open. And she looked like she'd been made of peaches—her skin blushed at the knees, along her thighs, at the cheekbones. She looked _soft. _She looked domestic and naïve and she looked like she'd be _tight._ He hated her. His mouth watered and he acknowledged that he wanted her, too.

He grunted, and she looked up at him, saw the bags of groceries, and looked a little guilty. "Sorry," she said, setting her bowl aside and motioning him in.

_As if he needed an invite, _Creed thought scornfully, but something about the gesture had set him even more off-kilter. He stepped inside, shifting the bags in his arms, and scowled at her.

"About having crappy food to eat," she went on, as if she'd misunderstood his expression. "I kinda suck at cooking. Last Thanksgiving I set off the fire alarms in the whole building and the fire department had to come, and I did it twice. Just from spilling milk on the stove. The poor volunteer firemen had to leave their families and come do—well, nothing—twice." She hopped down from the counter, her legs gleaming under her shorts, and took one bag from him with nothing but a mild smile. He let her take them, a little baffled, and she drew out the meat and whistled low. For all her protests regarding her cooking, she must have had an idea that they were good cuts. "I hope you know how to make these," she said to him, opening the fridge and crouching to stack the meat on the shelves.

Wordlessly, he handed her the next bag, and she laughed at the sight of more meat before tucking it away too. She moved aside when she saw the size of the crate of beer he'd purchased, currently tucked under one arm: there was no way she was going to be able to lift that. He thrust it unceremoniously inside, then stood and towered over her. The fridge was still open, the cool air curled around them both lingeringly. He leaned in, expecting his height and width to intimidate her.

Her scent did that strange thing again, growing a little richer and warmer, a little heavier and wetter. He heard the spike in her pulse that he assumed meant anxiety. Still, she only raised her eyebrows and smiled. "I take it Dean is being a good boy?" she said lightly.

He thought of the bottle sailing past his head and growled slightly. "Not entirely," he said shortly, looking her up and down. She flushed a little under his gaze and ducked under his arm. He let her, and she backed up from him before hoisting herself back on the counter. He recognized the movement as born of nervousness—she was trying to make herself taller, and to look nonchalant. The realization eased the tension in his belly and he stifled a grin, lowering his lids to eye her lazily.

"I'm supposed to punish you," Creed drawled, moving toward her slowly. Her defensive posturing on the countertop put her at a disadvantage, in spite of her intentions—he had her trapped, and could lean between her thighs. Her heart jumped suddenly and then took off at a gallop, and he recognized again that deeper, spiced fragrance he'd noticed at the library, lacing through her sudden, sharp apprehension. He tilted his head and stared at her, curious. What _was _that?

"What did you have in mind?" she asked carelessly, looking at the TV again. A blush had curled into her throat, though, and he could feel the extra heat coming off her face. He didn't bother to hold back a grin, then—for all her pretense, she was _scared,_ and she was _something else, too._

"I thought, since you're such a smartass, that a whipping might be in order," he growled, still sneering. If this was a challenge, he'd take her up on it. She was inviting terror, after all, with her attempts at a cavalier attitude. He let his nails lengthen, digging into the formica countertop. She looked down at his claws and frowned.

"You're determined to fuck with my security deposit, aren't you?" she asked mildly. He blinked at the obscenity falling so easily from her pretty mouth, then let his eyes harden again.

"Do you _know_ what a whipping from me would do to you?" he demanded silkily, his eyes dark and implacable with both amusement and quiet rage. He lifted one hand and rested it against her thigh. It was bigger than a dinner-plate, and the claws were sharp and, now, as long as her fingers. He squeezed a little, kneading her flesh. She winced when his claws pricked her skin through her clothes. Blood wafted into the air. Fear. _Real _fear, sharper this time, and so bittersweet. His grin grew wider.

"It'll take the flesh right off your ass," he ground out between smiling canines.

She swallowed, her eyes flicking to his claws. The musky scent faded a little bit, leaving just the bitterness. It was good—he was used to bitterness, had grown to like it. Savor it. She turned her gaze up at him slowly, eyes wide and dark as sloes. She took in the tight sleeveless shirt, stretched over his abdomen and pectorals—the thick arms, the glinting dogtags on his chest. His fierce eyes, eager for bloodshed. The way he was grinning: sharp, uncompromising. His narrow hips, wedged between her thighs.

With one hand, she reached out and touched the short, dark 'chops that furred his jawline.

He lurched back from her touch as though burned, hissing out a flurry of obscenities she couldn't even identify. He nearly stumbled, though he was too quick and graceful for her to notice. Nevertheless, she immediately looked apologetic. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just—I wasn't thinking."

He rushed her, then, crowding into her space so quickly she reared back, smashing the back of her head on the cupboards. He arms were boxing her in; he was leaning so close that she was almost pressed flush against him, and his teeth filled the field of her vision.

"Touch me again like that, frail," he snarled, "and I swear I'll bite those goddam fingers right off yer pretty little hands."

The color leeched from her face and he swung away, stalking back to the far room, infuriated at her, at McQuay, at himself. When had he lost control of the situation? How had it happened? He'd thought he'd had her—all bitter fear, feigned carelessness, that hint of something musky and deep—he'd thought she was at his mercy, that his threats were working.

And then she'd reached out—and, _Christ, _what the hell had that been? Who in the hell reached _for _the Sabertooth, the Butcher, the one and only Victor Creed?

Only someone who didn't know their fucking place. Only someone who thought they were better than him, who thought they were in control.

He paced the room, enraged, fuming. He was ready to crush her into pieces, and as much as he wanted to work her over good—leave that fine-boned face permanently disfigured—he held back. He would beat the snot out of her after he'd calmed down enough to be a little more in control—enough to _enjoy _it.

This was the problem with collateral that _breathed._ Targets always got so fucking _sentimental_ about it. If he killed her now, McQuay would be twice as hard to control as he would have been in the first place, if the stupid frail had never entered the goddamn picture.

_Fuck._

He paced, trying to figure out exactly how he was going to go about this. He knew how to slaughter people easily, or maim. Anything short of that was a wild card: he didn't know how to make sure he _didn't_ kill her. And he wanted to—_fuck,_ but he wanted to _end _her, in whatever most-horrible way he could. Something about her light touch had fucked with his damn head, and he was going to make her pay for it, the little bitch.

For the second time that day, he didn't realize how much time had passed till there was a soft, hesitant knock on the door. He realized, suddenly, that it was dusk, and he yanked the door open with a growl, nearly pulling it off the hinges. He loomed over October Morgan, ready to bludgeon her with one solid fist to the side of her skull. Knock her out for a few hours and give her one fucker of a headache, just to keep her out of his goddamn way.

Just so long as he didn't split her skull. Yet.

She was looking down though, a couple beers in her hands, and said in a whisper, "Can I come in?"

He grew still. Had she been watching, she might have been unsettled: every quivering muscle, every twitching tendon, slowly stopped its movement. The silence was long, and dangerous.

Then he moved away from the door, leaving her just enough space to squeeze by. Eyes locked on her, Creed loped back over to the bed, moving in an arc around the Morgan frail like a circling predator. As stupid as she seemed in terms of proper instincts, the sight gave her pause. He practically filled the room, and she realized that with his immense size, his feet were probably dangling off the edge of the bed when he slept.

She bit her lip. _That sucks._

She then realized that this was probably the last man on the planet she should be feeling sorry for, and if he had known her sympathetic sentiments, she had a feeling she wouldn't be breathing for long.

"I thought—it's been a while and you must be getting hungry. I didn't want to touch the meat—I don't know how you like it, and didn't want to risk burning the place down. But I thought I could bring you something to drink," she added, and knelt on the floor in front of him, pulling a bottle-opener from her pocket and preparing to open the beverage, bracing it between her knees.

He reached out quickly and snagged it from her, using one claw to expertly pop the lid. She watched, her mouth an "o" of surprise, and he glowered at her. His fury had _not _lessened. "Close that mouth, or we'll have to find something to put in it," he sneered. "Damned if I don't like the sight of you on yer knees, little Miss Morgan."

She flushed and snapped her mouth shut, and then—without thinking—snorted delicately. Her eyes strained in the gathering dusk, catching his narrow-eyed look of rising rage once more. "You're clever," she conceded lightly, by way of explanation. A sardonic half-smile curled her lip. "Mean as hell," she added mildly, almost admiringly, "but smart. Your words are sharp."

He stared, then downed the beer and scowled at her. "I need to beat the hell out of you," he said after a moment. "Since ya seem to think I'm a joke." He lengthened his claws and cracked his knuckles: _let her try to take __that __so lightly._

Her jaw dropped once more. "What?" She seemed shocked by his interpretation. "No! You're scary as hell!" she insisted, and indeed, he smelled the sudden rush of anxiety that had come over her. "For chrissake, I just said you were _smart. _It was not an _insult_. If you're going to hurt me, at least do it for a _real_ reason, and not because you think I'm oblivious to how utterly terrifying you are!"

He gauged her stonily for a moment, then permitted a slight smirk to curl his lip. She was clever herself; he'd give her that. Blending a compliment with a plea.

Of course, he'd heard others try to pull that shit before.

"I don't need a _reason,"_ he said nastily. He snagged the other beer from her, drinking that too, before rising and staring down at her. After a moment, he unbuckled his belt and pulled it from the waist of his pants, letting the thick leather trap drop heavily to the floor. The buckle jarred when it hit the wood. He hooked his thumb in the front of the waistband, letting his hand rest there for a moment, and heard her heat skip a beat in sudden terror. "I would fuck you up just because I can. And I enjoy it."

"Look," she said after a moment, her voice wavering a little. "I didn't mean to upset you. I just wanted to apologize for—for touching you earlier, and doing something you didn't like—"

"Do you understand," he interrupted, "how completely I _own_ you right now?"

He could see her tremble in the gloom.

"I can do anything I want to you, and the more you fight it, the more I'll enjoy it." Her fear peaked, and his grin widened till his incisors dented his lower lip. "I hold your life in my hand, and I can snuff it out without a thought—though I tell ya what, I prefer to take my time." He ran his hand over the zipper of his pants. "Do you think I could choke you on my cock?" he asked speculatively after a moment.

She was almost waxen in the twilight.

His eyes sharpened, dropping the façade of whimsy, and her glowered down at her again. "Do. You. Understand?" he repeated, looking down at her scornfully.

She nodded, and he lunged down faster than she could think, snagging a fistful of her hair and dragging her to her feet by it. She choked out a gasp of pain. In the growing dark, he could see the purple smudges on her chin from where he'd grabbed her earlier. She clutched at his wrist, trying to hoist herself along with him, trying to ease the burn in her scalp. He let her, even as he lifted her feet clean off the ground.

"The only reason I don't redecorate every room of this apartment with your severed limbs is because you're my collateral against McQuay," he said fiercely, his mouth inches from hers. "The only reason I don't simply kill him and do whatever I want with you is because my employer wants him discredited." He grinned, drawing closer, his gleaming teeth just a breath from her own lips. She could feel the heat of them. "But I run by my own rules, frail," he purred, his voice dangerously soft. "And if you touch me again without permission, I will tear you apart."

She opened her mouth to say something—probably some smartass comment, Creed thought—then thought better of it. Her pretty lips snapped shot and she just nodded mutely. He eased her down to her feet, his claws still buried in her hair, and found himself leaning with her. His lips ghosted threateningly over hers.

"What?" he growled.

She tilted her head in his hand, perplexed and reluctant. Her hair—he hadn't realized—it felt glossy and soft in his hand, heavy ropes of silk. "If I answer that, you're going to hurt me," she whispered.

His eyes narrowed. "One free pass, frail."

She chewed at her lip. He wanted to chew on it as well. Leave blood dripping down her chin, maybe. Except the image went from being delicious to vaguely disquieting, too quickly for him to figure out why.

"I just don't think that's very fair," she said lightly. "I mean, here you are, putting your hands all over me without permission—"

_The fuck? Who says shit like that? To __me, no less?_

"—and besides, what if I _do_ get permission?"

Never mind. He _would _chew her bloody. "You won't," he ground out. "And that's how it'll stay. Because I have the power. I'm bigger than you, and stronger than you, and I'm the most dangerous thing out here."

She licked her lips again, and was silent. He leaned in closer, his hand tightening, and her smell was all _wrong, _or _too_ wrong—the bitterness of the fear was there, for sure, but that sweet, spicy musk was back, and he didn't—he couldn't—

"I'll put my hands all over you any time I like," he growled. "But don't you ever imagine I'll let you touch me and keep all yer fingers."

He released her roughly. She stumbled and dropped to a crouch, keeping herself small, and stayed put while he moved to the kitchen, muttering under his breath about girls who didn't know what was good for them. For a moment she was very still, her fingers creeping over her collarbone and her palm anchored to her hammering heart. Her abdomen was tight and coiled, her thighs pressed tightly together. She breathed out softly, raggedly, trying to calm herself. Everything tingled. She pressed her fingers to her cheeks, trying to will away the extra warmth.

Eventually, October climbed to shaky feet and slid down the hallway and toward the kitchen. Creed was cooking—for one—and she plucked a hot pocket from the freezer and stuck it in the microwave. He leaned against the counter top and eyed her as she moved about the kitchen—pouring herself some milk, sipping it quickly, setting it down when the microwave beeped. He tended to his steak, watching her. She nibbled on the edge of the flaky crust at the counter, and when he reached down delicately with his claws to seize the steak straight from the pan without tongs, she winced.

He smirked. "I have a high pain tolerance," he mocked, slapping the steak onto a plate.

She couldn't hold back the slight twitch of a grin—"Did you even really cook that thing at all?" she asked smartly, almost laughing, before moving to the table and clearing the photos and papers away.

"I like it juicy," he purred suggestively, menacingly, and sidled close to her as she moved her crap to make room for him at the table. When he dropped into the chair beside her, his eyes were level with hers, even though she was still standing. She shied away suddenly, and he smirked.

"Mm," was all she said in acknowledgement before lifting herself back onto the ledge of the counter. Her scent had grown rich and damp again, and her heart tripped nervously.

"Why don't you come sit over here?" he suggested mockingly, gesturing to the other chair across the table as she nibbled on her hot pocket.

She shrugged and swung her legs. "I feel tall up here." She grinned impishly, casting him a downward glance out of the corner of her eye.

He grinned back—less impishly—and, without blinking or shifting his gaze, shoved the stacks of papers to the floor. "Sit," he said, still smiling, but it was clearly a warning.

She sighed and hopped down, sitting across from him.

He took a mouthful of his bloody steak and chewed thoughtfully. "What is all this shit, anyway?" he asked, gesturing to the fallen files and photos.

She hesitated, the corner of her mouth curling up in a self-deprecating smile as she lifted a sheaf of papers from the floor. "This is what I do," she said mildly, and lay a handful of the papers out for him one at a time. They were posters and flyers and newspaper articles, each depicting the face of a different missing child. "Some of these are runaways. Some—no-one knows. I work as an advocate and—well, a kind of activist, I guess. I'm not as—public as I used to be. But I talk to parents and make sure they know their rights and resources when a kid goes missing. I'll go with them to court hearings if I have to or if they want me to. I try to help them find them. But I also work with children's rights so sometimes when a school has a kid they think is being abused, I'll get called in to talk with the student. I do training sessions with the teachers at the beginning of the year and we do a refresher course at some schools in the winter. I work with the kids sometimes and advocate for them at court hearings, and do work at some of the juvenile shelters in town. I used to work closely with Rheuse & Caruthers, too—they helped pay for some of my schooling and certifications after I'd been with them a while. But yes—my job is to make sure strong, good people don't get taken advantage of, and to make sure lost kids find their way home, no matter what that looks like."

He chewed slowly, almost distractedly. Her words somehow dredged up memories that he'd thought he'd forgotten, that he'd thought he'd buried. He knew what it was like to be a lost kid, after all.

But then, no-one had given two shits if he'd had a place to call home, had they? In fact, they'd kicked him out of their barns, more often than not. Him and Jimmy If he'd been the fuckin' sentimental type, he might've said—once—that Jimmy _was_ home. But then, even that had been taken from him.

Fuck, he _hated _her.

He sneered. "Isn't that cute? You find people, and I make 'em disappear."

Her face whitened, and she bit her lip before shuffling the papers back together and dropping them on the floor with the rest. It was maybe the first time he thought she really understood what he was about, what kind of monster he was. He chuckled at her expression, turning his attention back toward his steak. God, he really hoped McQuay would fuck up so he could _take_ her, pound into her from behind, make her scream and cry and beg.

He really _hoped._

Maybe, at the end, he would take her with him anyway. He could picture her, naked, trying to crawl away as he looped an arm around her hips and dragged her wriggling body back to him.

_Not done with you yet, little Miss Morgan._

"Don't think," he added after a minute, leaning forward on his forearms, "that because I'm a mutant, I'm gonna to be soft on you because used to work with mutants. Yeah," he drawled when he saw her startled expression, "I know what you used to do. Don't know why you stopped. Don't much care." His mouth was full of sharp, mean teeth. "I've killed my own kind for enough cash before. I'd do it for free if the mood struck." He tightened his fists, and the muscles in his arms grew taut. She shrank back, just a little, but it was enough that he noticed. Quietly, grinning, with his voice dangerous and low, he said, "The only thing more pathetic…and weak…and _delicious_…than a normal human being? The only easier target?" He licked his teeth. "Is a normal with a bleeding heart."

Her eyes flicked away from his, but he kept eyeing her: a predator's stare. After a moment she cleared her throat awkwardly and stood, holding her hand out for his empty plate. He sat back and watched as she took it to the sink, filling one side halfway with soapy water and adding the pan he'd seared his meat in. She flicked on the little fluorescent light over the sink and it whirred to life, and he watched her sink her hands into the warm water with a barely-audible sigh, rolling her head on her shoulders.

He hated her. He _hated_ her.

But he could probably watch her with half-lidded eyes for hours.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

The next morning found Creed leaning over the back of the couch and staring at October Morgan with a brooding expression, popping a piece of nearly-raw bacon in his mouth. The frail would sleep till noon if he let her. Her brassy curls were a tanglement around her face, and her pretty lips were parted. He watched her still eyelids, fragile and dark-smudged. He didn't know how she could sleep so easily, with a predator like him leaning over her. Couldn't she sense him at all?

She rolled deeper into her blankets, her shoulders hunched, and turned onto her stomach. Her eyelids fluttered; he heard her pulse steadily increase. She stretched, her arms appearing from under the blankets as she crossed her wrists overhead and popped the joints before curling back into herself. She was soft, and barely-muscled, but he liked to watch her tense and flex and relax. He tried to imagine the feel of her body moving like that while she tried to get away from him. He remembered her tight, pale face from the night before_—You find people and I make 'em disappear—_and the way she'd looked on her knees, trying to open that beer for him.

"Mmm," she murmured from inside her cocoon. The girl had a pile of about five fleece blankets tangled around her, and she was buried deep inside them. "Smells good," she mumbled. She rolled back toward him, opening her eyes and yawning, stretching once more. Her body arched as she did, but unfortunately for him, she was still covered by a shit-ton of fleece and he didn't get a chance to see her soft, pretty breasts again.

_Time enough for that later,_ he thought with a smirk, baring a fang at her.

"'Morning, sunshine," she murmured sleepily—_again!_—before flopping back over on one side and burrowing into the borrowed warmth of her blankets.

He smirk faded. "Get up," he growled.

She sighed audibly and rolled into a sitting position, her blankets still wrapped tightly around her. She wiped at her eyes and blinked up at him. "'M up," she confirmed mildly. He paused, popping another strip of bacon into his mouth and watching her from the corner of his eye. The bruises on her chin were darker today, and he liked the way they looked on her skin. Sent a nasty little thrill through him, and he reveled in it.

At some point, he promised himself, he'd mark her all over like that.

"Did you dream last night?" she asked after a moment, seemingly out of nowhere. He swung his head to meet her gaze, staring her down.

"No," he said abruptly. What fuckin' business was it of hers, anyway?

She didn't seem to get the hint, or was just too stubborn. "Oh," she said lightly. "I thought I heard—"

He turned, catching her by the throat and slamming her down against the arm of the couch, looming over the back of it to stare down at her. His dog tags tumbled onto her chest, clinking and glinting. She choked, eyes wide, her hands at his wrist—but not squeezing or clawing, just holding him there. It surprised him, but he didn't let it distract him. "What did you hear?" he asked, his voice a snarl.

She twisted a little, arching away from him over the arm of the couch, trying to afford herself a little leeway. Her breasts pressed against his arm.

"Oh, I _like_ that," he growled lasciviously, tightening his hand. Her fear amplified—already pleasantly singing over his tastebuds—but that strange, musky aroma suddenly flooded through. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and snarled. "What did you hear?"

"You were talking to someone called 'Jimmy,'" she gasped. "You said—"

He extended his claws, letting them cut into the back of her neck, and she gasped, eyes widening and body thrashing as the delightful tang of her blood hit the air. It was laced with fear—pure, unadulterated now by the unidentifiable spice. "That's the sweet stuff, frail," he purred, savoring the scent of it and applying just a bit more pressure. "Tell me again, what did you hear?"

"I—nothing!" she rasped out.

He pulled back. "There we go." He winked at her and half-turned toward his plate, balanced on the back of the couch. "We're gonna get along just fine."

She looked up at him, eyes wide, brows tilted like he'd just killed her puppy.

"Have some breakfast," he added, picking up a piece of bacon—overcooked by his standards—and holding it against her mouth. Obediently, she parted her lips, too scared to do otherwise, and he slid it over her tongue. Her lips brushed his fingers when she closed them, and it sent a jolt down his spine. His eyes flashed to hers, dark and utterly implacable, and she swallowed the bacon nervously. Her scent—still mouthwateringly frightened—grew richer, sweeter, damper.

"Sorry," she murmured, her eyes holding his like she was too frightened to look away. His gaze dropped to her mouth again and he ran the edge of his thumb and claw experimentally over her lower lip, watching as it yielded under his light touch. Her scent grew unbearably warm and wet, still fearful and so, _so_ dense and delicious. He tilted his head, baffled at the smell of her. His eyes were locked on her wide, dark gaze, and the realization hit him suddenly, sharply:

she was _aroused._

With terrifying slowness, his lips pulled back in an intensely surprised, intensely savage grin, peeling back leisurely to reveal sharp canines. Her eyes grew impossibly wider and darker, the spicy aroma strengthening even further.

_Un.  
Be-fuckin'.  
Lievable._

She was _wet. _And her skin—flushed, fragrant. Creed couldn't believe he hadn't figured it out before—but then, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had an aroused woman nearby, either. Usually, their enthusiasm was focused more in fleeing than in staying. Perhaps the last girl who'd wanted him had been the original Frail Mary herself, back when he was just a kid running through Canada with his brother. Even then, she maybe hadn't been old enough to smell—to smell like _this. _He realized suddenly that he had first scented October's desire in the library, and that she had been wanting him almost from that moment.

It was strange—he had hurt her, threatened her in a hundred ways. The marks on her chin and the blood at the nape of her neck had proven that. And he wasn't stupid—he knew he was a _scary_ motherfucker. He had made grown men wet their pants before. _Her_ fear had always been hard to come by, even when she wasn't all hot n' bothered. He realized now that her arousal was tempered by her terror, and vice versa.

Here was this slip of a girl, and she _wanted_ him.

He leaned in over her and her hands flew to his chest, not pulling him in, but not pushing away either. Her fingers were splayed over his muscles. He wondered how far that _want _of hers went. He wasn't fool enough to think she'd part those pretty legs of hers willingly, but this could be fun nonetheless. His nose brushed her throat, her hair. He breathed her in, committing the scent of her arousal to his memory. _Fuck,_ he realized suddenly—her panties must be _soaked._

For _him_.

"You _are_ a pretty thing," he murmured, his eyes glinting knowingly. "I could fuck you in ways you've never _dreamed._"

Her breath caught in her throat and she suddenly curled under his arm and rolled to the side, half-tumbling off the couch. He let her. "I need to brush my teeth!" she squeaked, scurrying around the furniture and trying to dart past him. He rose from his position leaning over the couch and stood languidly in her way, his bulk taking up the entry to the hall. After a fraction of a second of hesitation, she sidled past him, all her curves brushing against his solid muscle as she slid against the wall and fled down the hallway.

Oh, yes. She _wanted _him.

He grinned thoughtfully and reached for another slice of bacon, lounging against the opposite wall. Well. This had been an interesting morning already.

"Game's changed," he murmured, taking a swig of his breakfast beer.


	5. Chapter II: The Animal, Part I

Title: The Victor

Chapter II: The Animal, Part I

**Rating: M for foul language, violence, and sexual content.**

**Summary: This is a rewrite of the Octoberverse (originally published in May 2009). Victor Creed gets sidetracked on a mission by a lovely piece of collateral.**

**Disclaimer: If I could wrap myself up in Liev Schreiber's enormous Victor Creed arms every night, I would. Alas…**

_Little Prince _is quoted both directly as well as paraphrased here; author mentioned in the text. Consider it suitably disclaimed.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed uneventfully. He listened to the water running as she showered. He imagined her soaping up that pretty body of hers. He tucked into a couple of steaks in the afternoon while she munched on cereal and stared out the window, then leafed through a stack of files that she must have brought home from work the week before.

It was so…fucking…_boring._

The apartment building had roof-access; he went up briefly while she was engrossed in her files, eager for a little fresh air and space to move. When he came back down, she was perched cross-legged on the couch, hunched over a book.

"Are you still going to be here on Sunday?" she asked without looking up.

It was too much for a wild animal to bear. He'd been locked up in this fucking house all day, and here she was, not even afraid…hell, it was the first time she'd spoken since her hasty departure that morning. Now she had a sweet little pair of glasses on her nose, making her look like the kind of secretary he'd have liked to fuck brutally and unforgivingly.

She might want him—and he liked that. She might be fun to play with; he liked that too.

But he still hated _her._

He leaned against the wall across from her, watching her. "Oh, _yeah_," he said after a moment, his voice deceptively mild. "I plan on being here for a few weeks, at _least._ That is," he added, smirking, "unless the job wraps up more quickly than I expect."

She knew what he meant. _Unless I kill you first._

Her heart tremored for a moment before she took a deep breath, turning her eyes back toward her book. He hated that, too. "The library expects me on Sunday," she said mildly, "and I don't have a phone to call and cancel."

He moved behind her and tilted his head at her, scowling. "Why, you manipulative little bitch," he rumbled, impressed in spite of himself. He clapped his clawed hands over her shoulders, making her flinch. His hot fingers rested on the bareskin above her neckline. He pressed, feeling the skin yield under the warm pads of his fingers and his claws. He leaned low and let his breath ghost over her neck, the shell of her ear. "I guess I'll just have to go with you." His grin widened, baring sharp incisors. "Of course, if you fuck anything up, there's thirty cubs who can pay for your mistake."

Her lips tightened but she said nothing. However, the scent curling off her skin was almost entirely arousal and a remarkable lack of fear—relatively speaking—so he guessed that she hadn't been planning on stabbing him in the back. The thought was gratifying—for all her smartass remarks, maybe he had her under control after all.

He liked the image that conjured up—her on her back beneath him, or maybe on her hands and knees. _Under control._ He'd grip her pretty hips, dig his claws in and puncture her skin, make the blood run while he fucked her brutally. Make her scream for him. Make her beg. He'd let her go for a moment, let her try to crawl away. Give her hope.

Then he'd laugh and drag her back by her thighs and drill into her again—

"Will you help me?" she asked. Her words jarred him and his claws tightened on her shoulders. He pierced her flesh without thinking, which offered up to him the sweet, sweet scent of her blood. Still, when she winced and turned those utterly guileless, wide dark eyes up to him, he slowly retracted his nails.

"Mr Creed?"

Instinctively, he opened his mouth to snarl a refusal, but then paused. He couldn't remember the last time someone had asked him for help. It was probably Jimmy, decades ago when they were fighting through the savage wilderness, two brothers banded together forever.

So what if he offered to help her with—whatever. He could taunt her with the knowledge. Toy with her a bit. Hurt her. Or maybe he could see if it made her wet for him again.

"What do you need help with?" he demanded, leaning low again to purr in her ear.

She licked her lips. Her throat was rosy and flushed, and she smelled damp and musky. "Um, I'm…"

He nipped her earlobe sharply, cutting her off, and she gasped. He could read her confusion clearly: she didn't know whether to be afraid or turned on. Adrenaline coursed his veins and he barked a sharp laugh at her. "Spit it out, frail."

"I'm thinking of reading _The Little Prince_ by Saint Exupéry to the kids on Sunday," she spilled out in a rush, twisting to look up at him. "But it's so long. I have to find the right chapters. They wanted tigers, and a flower. I think I have the right bit, but I'm not sure if it's too—I'm not sure if they'll like it. Will you let me read to you?"

_Dammit. No. What a stupid—_

"Why would I wanna listen to you read a fucking kid's book?" He paused, then gave her the most lascivious leer he could manage—which was pretty damn lascivious, even by his standards. "Maybe I'll help you—if you'll help me with a little somethin' sometime."

She twisted her lips, looking vaguely offended, and began to turn away. He thought, suddenly, of the times when Jimmy was sick and they still had their respective homes, and how he would read to his little brother sometimes by the light of the fire. It had been Jimmy who taught him to read in the first place—back before they knew they were brothers, but still had a bond.

The serving boy and the sick kid from the big house.

Of course, Jimmy had been content with his lot in life. Even sick, he'd only wanted the basics. Wasn't till they'd gone on the run and he'd been without home and family that the runt realized he might not always have those things.

Victor, on the other hand, had always wanted _more:_ more knowledge, more strength, more money, more women. He'd never been satisfied with peace and simplicity. He preferred war. He had a higher threshhold of stimulation. If he had any addiction, it was to adrenaline. To _power_.

So when Jimmy and taught him how to read—which he'd picked up shockingly quickly—Victor had devoured book after book, reveling—as a boy—in the characters' adventures and yearning to have his own.

Well, he had them now.

Creed rolled his eyes and moved back, scraping his claws lingerly over her shoulders as he left, feel her flush in the wake of his touch. He sneered to himself and strode to the kitchen to pluck a beer from the fridge, cracking it open with a claw. Lazily crossing his long legs at the ankle, Creed leaned against the counter, waiting with deliberate indifference. "Well, frail? You gonna start?"

The mildly disgusted look on her face melted. She smiled broadly, just for him, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to find the trick in it. The fear. The plea.

"Chapter Eight," she said quietly.

"She chose her colors with the greatest care. She dressed herself slowly. She adjusted her petals one by one. She did not wish to go out into the world all rumpled, like the field poppies. It was only in the full radiance of her beauty that she wished to appear. Oh, yes! She was a coquettish creature! And her mysterious adornment lasted for days and days.

"Then one morning, exactly at sunrise, she suddenly showed herself. And, after working with all this painstaking precision, she yawned and said: _Ah! I am scarcely awake. I beg that you will excuse me. My petals are still all disarranged . . ._

But the little prince could not restrain his admiration. _Oh! How beautiful you are!_

_Am I not?_ the flower responded, sweetly. _And I was born at the same moment as the sun . . ._"

October glanced up at him, smiling as though personally amused by this flower and expecting him to join in her humor. The Stargazer lilies behind her, framed by the window, seemed like a reflection of the book she was reading.

He thought the story was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. A fucking flower? Really? But her voice washed over him nonetheless, warm and liquid. Unconsciously, he relaxed a little, his big shoulders rolling downward.

"_I think it is time for breakfast,_ she added an instant later_. If you would have the kindness to think of my needs—_And the little prince, completely abashed, went to look for a sprinkling-can of fresh water. So, he tended the flower."

Creed stood silently, pensively, lifting the beer to his mouth and taking a long pull as he watched her. She was still sitting cross-legged, turned toward him now, her limbs neatly folded and bare, her tangle of bronze hair falling over her face. She pushed it back distractedly. The silver bracelet shimmered on her wrist.

"One day, when she was speaking of her four thorns, she said to the little prince: _Let the tigers come with their claws!" _

A grim smile curled the corner of his mouth. _Speaking of women not afraid of tigers._ He thought of her mouthy sass, how scared she was in the face of his threats—and yet she never cowered.

"_There are no tigers on my planet,_ the little prince objected. _And, anyway, tigers do not eat weeds._

"_I am not a weed,_ the flower replied, sweetly. _And I am not at all afraid of tigers."_

Creed thought with a kind of savage, grim gloating that he'd give the Morgan frail plenty to be afraid of before he was done. If she survived it, she'd have nightmares for years. He liked to imagine her waking up at night in the cold sweat of fear, her limbs still feeling weighted down by the remembered heaviness of him, her body sore and aching with phantom bruises. At least, he liked to imagine it for a little bit, but sometimes when he thought of the expression her face would wear—haunted, hurt—

He growled low in his throat, shaking his head viciously, trying to dislodge the strange thoughts that came with it.

She looked up at him, expectantly, and he realized abruptly she was done. Her voice was so smooth, so lulling, he hadn't realized the story was finished.

"It _is_—a little girlish," he said roughly after a moment, taking a swig of his beer. "But I like the bit at the end about the tiger and the girl."

"Flower," she corrected lightly, a small smile playing at her mouth.

He glowered at her. "It's clearly a metaphor," he returned shortly.

Her eyes widened and she looked pleased. She raised her eyebrows. "For?"

"For little blond girls who aren't afraid of things they should be," he ground out, glaring. This conversation was fast becoming more of a hassle than he'd expected. "Other than the girlishness, it's fine." He was in a foul mood again. He'd been lulled by her stupid voice and put off his game, and now he couldn't properly taunt her. "I'm sure you can tell all the little brats about the rewards of bravery and all that shit."

She closed the book slowly and looked at him with serious, dark eyes. "She isn't rewarded."

He looked up from his beer, his brows furrowed a little in confusion. "What?" Weren't all these books supposed to laud strength of character and fortitude and courage, even when it bordered on stupidity?

She smiled. "The prince leaves the flower all alone. It's in the next chapter. He says—"

She paused, screwing her face up thoughtfully, and slowly recited from memory:

"_I did not know how to take pleasure in all her grace. I ought to have judged by deeds and not by words. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her. This tale of claws, which disturbed me so much, should only have filled my heart with tenderness and pity._

"So instead of staying with her, he leaves her all alone. He talks about her throughout the book, but we never know if he returns to her."

He chuckled darkly and toasted her with his bottle. "There's the reward of the righteous," he sneered. "Thank God I'm not one of 'em." He thought of his own bank account, his unlimited credit, how he could get away with _anything_. "So, do the tigers get 'er?" He imagined huge, heavy-boned cats ripping their claws through pink lilies. He imagined October's skin flaring open in gouges of red under his own hands. The thought made him hard, then made him angry, and he thought he was going to go crazy. He needed to get out of here. Or fuck her. Or kill her.

Maybe fuck her _and _kill her.

Maybe fuck her and take her with him.

She laughed, moving from the couch and coming toward him, pouring herself a glass of water from the faucet. "We don't know," she confessed lightly. "Maybe they do. Maybe they tear her apart."

His grin was feral.

"But some people," she added with a sideways smile, "don't do things because of some perceived 'reward for the righteous'."

"And that's how you end up on the bottom of the food chain," he mocked, watching her move. Her throat rippled as she downed the water and set her glass on the counter. "With the tigers chewing your throat out."

"Mm," she conceded. "Probably true." Wiping the stray drops of water from her lips, she looked up at him. "I still say the flower's fate is better than the tiger's."

He raised an eyebrow derisively. "Oh, do ya now?" he scoffed. "Color me surprised."

She only nodded, and her eyes went soft.

The little bitch was looking at him, and her eyes were _so. Soft._

"The flower had, however briefly, someone to love and take care of her," she said quietly. "And, as weak as she seemed, she took care of the prince too. I don't think tigers get that very often." Her little hand curled toward his face again, and, under her breath and almost bemused, she asked, "Has anyone taken care of you, Mr Creed?"

He was still. In these moments, there was a silent strength about her that frustrated him, that infuriated him and turned him on all at once. What woman raised her hand to Victor Creed's mouth, as though _she _could possibly give _him __anything_?

He was very still. He had promised to chew her fingers off if she touched him again but just right now, he didn't know. Didn't know what he would do if she stroked his jaw again like she had before. His skin had been burning for hours.

Her fingers stopped just a hair's breadth from his jaw, and she dropped it after a moment, an uncertain little smile curling the corner of her mouth. She dropped her gaze almost as quickly, almost _shyly_, which his predator's instincts immediately picked up on as submission and vulnerability. He wanted to lunge at her throat, sink his teeth in. Throw her down on the floor and rut her till she begged for mercy, yanking a handful of her tangled blond hair back so he could keep his teeth clamped on her jugular the entire time. For a moment, with her lashes against her cheeks, it was all he could think of: fucking her. Wanting her. Hurting her.

Then lapping at her wounds.

"I think I'd rather have a tiger destroy me than never experience that."

His hands flew to the sides of her head and she started, gasping, when he dragged her face up to his. "You're so close to getting your wish," he purred, feeling furious and overheated and _hating _her, again, because of her soft eyes and soft voice and her eagerness to _touch, _her damp smell which he wanted more of and knew he would never get, not fully, not the way he wanted to.

He flung her away so hard that she hit the cabinetry hard and bounced off, stumbling and nearly dropping to one knee. He didn't think about the fact that he could've pushed her harder, should've pushed her harder.

Without looking back, he stalked out the door, with murder on his mind.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

He strolled for hours. Wreaked havoc. Ran. Dared anyone to cross him wrongly. He ducked in a bar when it started raining, and a waitress with hard-looking fake tits rubbed up against him and asked for his order. He demanded a fifth of whiskey—the whole thing—and picked a fight with some muscle-bound asshole who wanted to "take him out back and teach him a lesson." The man smelled like five days with no shower, and stale booze, and stale condoms. Creed gauged him to be an abusive motherfucker, most likely a rapist. He probably had a wife at home who only hoped he'd come back so that she knew where he was and didn't have to worry he'd pop up from behind the fucking furniture somewhere. She'd probably be pleased to find him dead, and no-one would miss this jackass.

Not that Creed had any room to judge.

When the two of them were alone in the rain and shadows of the alley behind the bar, Creed waited till the bastard lunge. It was too easy—and incredibly dissatisfying-to step left and sock the guy with a handful of kidney-hits that brought the dickwad to his knees. The strikes had probably ruptured a couple his organs.

Coldly, methodically, and with great precision, Creed then proceeded to smash the man's face in with fists like pistons or lead weights, moving them with great deliberation. It was emotionless. Precise. The man fell; Creed followed. He continued plowing his fists into the fucker with alternating blows, till the skull looked more like a bloody, misshapen potato than a human head.

Covered in blood and booze, and bits of brain and bone most likely, Creed thought about banging the waitress as well. One fatality was enough for tonight, though—at least, since he was trying to stay low-profile. Plus, after his fingers had been pressed so tightly into October's soft skin today, and ever since he'd smelled her arousal and fear, he thought that this woman—with her rock-hard tits—probably wouldn't do it for him.

Not till he'd sunk his teeth into the Morgan frail, anyway.

When he got back to the apartment, soaked in rain and blood, she was sitting on the couch with her back to him. It was nearly dark in the apartment—just a little lamp, and the flickering blue of the TV.

"What are you doing?" he snarled, still in a savage mood.

She looked up, and immediately her popcorn was forgotten. She jumped to her feet and moved toward him, her brows knitted and her mouth an "o."

"Mr Creed—my God, what happened?"

Before he could register the movement, she was fluttering around him like some goddamn little bird: touching his coat, poking at the lapels, trying to find the source of the blood.

"S'not mine," he growled, baring his teeth in an angry, hard grin when she paused and looked up at him.

"Mr Creed," she whispered after a long moment. "You're soaked. We need to get you out of—well, I mean, you should go change. Please. Please change and I'll put those in the dryer, okay? And come sit with me. Please."

_Please._

"Begging already, frail?" he rumbled. He felt hot and itchy under the layer of drying blood. Edgy. Twitchy. He hated her—except when he didn't. He wanted her _scared._ He wanted her wanting him. He wanted _her, _and he'd never been ashamed of his wants but they were fucking with him royally now. He hated her—yes. He bared his teeth. "I haven't even _started_ hurting you yet."

He stalked down the hall to his room and stripped out of his clothes, throwing on another pair of pants before turning to the door again. To his surprise, she was waiting there—her eyes wide at the brief glimpse of his nakedness—and he whipped the wet, heavy clothing at her as hard as he could. She actually yelped and stumbled back, catching herself against the opposite wall. The only reason she didn't fall was because of the narrowness of the hall.

He paced the kitchen while she opened the dryer, which had been tucked tightly into a hall closet. She looked at the clothes and realized just how much blood and—

With a barely-perceptible shudder, she kicked the dryer shut and opened the tiny washing machine instead, tossing his wet clothes in and adding detergent. He watched darkly as she moved. He drank another beer. He washed his hands. He got in her space, trying to intimidate her. When she turned and startled again at his nearness, he lifted her with one arm and sat her on the washing machine, leaning into her so deeply that that she had to tilt back.

He glared.

"Mr Creed?" She sat quietly on the washer, very still. He glowered at her as she shifted, his eyes tracking her. "Come on—why don't you come sit with me on the couch? I'm watching a movie."

He slammed down his hands on either side of her, denting the top of the washer. She yelped, oozing fear, but just bit her lip and met his eyes, not backing down. "It's called _10,000 BC._ Have some corn," she added, gesturing with her chin down the hall and toward the couch, where a bowl was sitting.

His gaze didn't flicker. Shouldn't she be crying? Or shivering? Or trying to get away? Pleading at some point? Would she _ever_ plead? What the hell was wrong with her? He slid his hands up over her thighs, and gripped them, opening her wide and dragging her to the edge of the machine so that her crotch was flush against his abdomen.

He could feel her through her sweatpants and looked down at wear she was pressed against him. She hadn't been aroused before, but she was now: hot, damp, buttery. He'd be able to smell her musk on him later.

"Hey," she whispered, and he dragged his eyes to her face. He could tell from her voice that her throat had gone dry. Nervously, she licked her lips. "I don't know what's wrong, but I promise watching a good movie and eating some popcorn helps." She straightened cautiously, and he let her, pulling back slowly when she shifted to try to get down. He could have kept her there—she knew it—but he allowed her to slide to the lip of the washing machine instead, let her slip down. He growled low in his throat when every curve pressed tightly against him.

"Come on. You need to calm down. It'll be fun. Promise."

She ducked under his arm and moved slowly toward the couch, looking back at him as if to beckon, one hand extended toward him. When he didn't move, she sat down on the couch, still meeting his eyes, and took a couple fluffy kernels of popcorn in her hand. Popped them in her mouth.

Held her bowl out to him.

It smelled like styrofoam and chemicals and grease—revolting—but something in the gesture made a little wedge of him _want. _It was the the part of him that was still a kid in the Canadian tundra, a part that he'd thought he'd killed.

He eyed the buttery kernels disdainfully and she shrugged while he loomed over her.

"You can sit, you know," she said, joking—but cautious, too. "Have you seen this movie before?"

He snorted, growled, paced like a caged lion. "I don't usually watch movies."

She shot him a sideways pout. "You deprived child."

He turned his eyes to her sharply before realizing she was teasing. The playful look on her face dissipated immediately and she turned apologetic. "I didn't mean—"

He cut her off with a grunt and sat heavily on the couch beside her. She yelped as his weight crushed in the old, overly-soft cushions and she rolled on her hip toward him.

He didn't comment when her shoulder fell into his, or when she pressed her cool little hands frantically against his upper arm to try to prop herself upright and away from him. He stared at the TV instead, still stoic but then feeling himself slowly grin—sharp and wide—at the smell and feel of her. "I don't watch movies because they don't _do_ anything for me," he said.

She had resituated herself at the far end of the couch, a tendril of fear still wafting through the air. He guessed she was remembering his words from before:_ touch me again, frail, and I will bite your fingers off._ Her fear made him feel more in-control. It reminded him that he was in power. And the smell of it went a long way to calming his rage, which was no longer spiking—but still a long way from being assuaged.

"Not even action movies with lots of explosions?" she asked, sounding baffled. "Or movies with blood and violence?"

He did turn toward her then, baring his teeth. "Why watch it on a screen when you can enjoy the real thing?"

She whitened, then blushed, then laughed. "Oh, please. There are plenty of other things to get out of the movies."

Creed tilted his head, staring at the caveman on the screen as he wooed some sexy blue-eyed woman. He doubted the ladies were that pretty and clean in prehistoric times. They weren't even that clean a hundred years ago.

"What else is there to get?" he scoffed. "They don't even look real. S'obviously not real blood, real wounds. Seen too much of the real thing to be fooled by some red syrup and flashy spray."

She laughed again, and he shot an irritated glance at her. "You're telling me—when you were younger—you never took some pretty little thing to a horror movie?" she teased, her voice light and disbelieving.

Something about it eased him—just a little. He leaned back, hands tucked behind his head, and raised an eyebrow at her. "Why the hell would I want to do that?"

She was grinning. "Come on; it's classic. The adolescent high-school guy takes his girlfriend to a scary movie full of gore, and she squeals and hides her face in his chest, and it's a perfect opportunity for some adolescent cuddlage."

"Do I seem like the cuddly type to you?" he asked. The mildness of his tone indicated that she was treading dangerous ground, but his muscles had loosened and the corner of his mouth twitched in spite of himself.

She rolled her own eyes and popped a piece of corn into her mouth. "Please," she said again, sarcastically. "You _so_ strike me as the type to cop a few good feels at the theatre when you were a kid."

He found himself surprisingly amused. Somehow, over the course of a few sentences, his rage had dissipated. Not all of it—but enough. He didn't have to hold himself back from tearing out her throat now.

He thought—maybe he'd come close to fucking up. He wasn't sure what that looked like—what "fucking up" _meant_ here, when he had no investment in her well-being at all—but he was happy enough with the way things were turning out instead.

"Exactly how old do you think I am?" he asked, allowing an amused smirk.

She shrugged. "Thirty-five? I'm a shitty judge of age, though."

He grinned ferally, enjoying her ignorance. "Have you ever heard of a regenerative factor, little girl?"

Her eyes widened. "Of course," she said after a moment. "You heal?"

"'M older than your great-grandma." He bent his head and sank his fangs into the meat of his own palm, right at the heel of his hand. She stared, transfixed, as the wounds bled and closed before her eyes.

He expected it to scare her. It was proof he was invincible, that there was no way she could hurt him or kill him in order to get away. He expected to see some version of the familiar, sweet hopelessness in her eyes.

Instead, she rocked to her knees beside him, the movie forgotten.

"Oh," she breathed. Her hand raised and moved toward his palm, stilling just a fraction of an inch away. There was that faint bitterness of apprehension again. "Can I?" she asked, her eyes flicking up to him.

Face expressionless, he lifted his chin in consent. He told himself he was just made curious by her fascination, the look of awe on her face. He was used to frightening people—and here she was, fucking everything up…again. He wanted to know what she'd do.

He didn't expect her to move so carefully, though, or to cradle his massive paw in her palms and run her thumbs lightly over the callused skin. She pulled his hand to her lap, smoothing gentle fingers over the unblemished skin.

He didn't think a woman had ever pulled his hand _closer,_ much less toward that dark juncture of her thighs. For a second he allowed himself the pleasure of picturing her naked, pulling his hand beggingly toward her slick, buttery folds.

Of course, it would never happen. But for just a second, he let himself imagine it.

"Does it hurt?" she whispered. Her touch was light and cool and lingering, like snowflakes. The thin silver charm bracelet, dotted with letters, clinked lightly on her wrist as she moved her hands over him.

He stared at the top of her golden head as she bent over his hand like a prayer, then shrugged nonchalantly and looked away. "Having a healing trait doesn't dull your nerves. 'F anything, it means you lack scar tissue that could protect you, keep you from pain."

"That sounds—horrible."

And before he could process _that, _he felt a soft, hot pressure on his hand.

His head snapped back around and he stared at her. She lifted her head, a smudge of his blood glistening on her mouth. Her eyes and her scent were full of fear. At the sight, his cock immediately swelled in his jeans. He grunted at the suddenness of his raging hard-on.

"I used to kiss my sisters when they were hurt," she whispered defensively, sounding uncertain and more than a little afraid. "It was just instinctive."

He was still staring, utterly still. The sight of her blood-smeared mouth and fearful gaze made his skin feel hot, his bones and abdomen tighten and knot. His cock twitched, trapped against the seam of his jeans. It was almost painful. He briefly contemplated lunging at her, tearing her sweatpants away and plunging in to her. She'd be tight and dry, and it would hurt her. She'd struggle, and he'd lick his own blood from her mouth.

"It doesn't dull your nerves," he clarified after a moment. "But I've gotten used to it. It doesn't bother me anymore." His voice was expressionless and measured—but his eyes were ferocious, focused on her bloody mouth. He could see the pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat as she examined his unmarred palm once more, her fingers sliding lightly over it—still hesitant, each fingertip seeking permission.

Someone should teach her. This kind of—this, whatever it was—it would be her undoing. He could see it clearly.

Her fine eyebrows furrowed, and she looked thoughtful and more—_sad—_than he'd ever seen her. "I know what that's like," she told him gently.

He raised an eyebrow, sneering, but his gaze was still fastened on her lips and it, at least, was not mocking. "Oh, do you?" he asked. His voice was so low.

She flushed, chewed her lip. He thought she might be completely unaware of the fact that he was a second away from screwing her silly.

"Not with physical pain, obviously," she said softly, sounding embarrassed. "But…other stuff. When the hurt doesn't ever go away, or get better." She shrugged helplessly and smiled. It was her good-morning-sunshine smile, her warm and soft and welcoming smile. It was sad, yes, but he could come up with no excuse of sleepiness, or lack of recognition.

It was for _him._

"You just…stop being surprised by the pain," she whispered to him.

Her words triggered something, a gut reaction. He reached out without thinking, still fascinated by the red on her mouth, his thumb catching her lower lip and smearing the blood there. He was careful with his claw, not nicking her at all, just letting it linger. He wanted to lunge at the smile she hid there, press his teeth against her, lap at her sweet mouth with his tongue. He wanted it to be only his. It almost hurt, how much he felt it—deep, in his bones. His thumb swept back, and her desire scented the room again, musky and sweet. She looked confused, and uncomfortable.

_You wanna keep her alive, you better put a leash on the animal—for now, anyway._

He smirked, but it was strained, his clawed thumb hovering just over her reddened mouth. He did nick her then, lightly, with just the tip of one talon. She startled, her lips trembling.

He could feel the heat and musk and—_there it was—_fear coming off her in clouds. He shielded her mouth from his claw, using the side of his thumb to graze back against her again.

"You gonna watch this movie or not, frail?" He didn't think she'd heard the unfamiliar brittleness of his own mocking voice.

She coughed to cover her embarrassment and turned away from him. She was blushing so hard he thought she might burst a vein. It made him grin, even if he couldn't shake the tension yet. It made him _almost _forget the coiled snake in his belly, the desperate knot of wanting something so bad when you knew you couldn't have it. He'd fuck her, yeah. He'd enjoying toying with her, too. Making her cry. Running her through a wringer of pain and fear and lust. But it wasn't—whatever he wanted, with that kind of overwhelming starvation—well, he couldn't name it, but he knew it wasn't for him.

In the meantime, he'd at least take his amusement from her.

A few minutes later and he was scoffing at the screen. For the Morgan frail's part, she was laughing uncontrollably on the other end of the couch.

"This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen," he spat, as though personally offended. "The sabertooth just…what? Walks away? The damn thing's starving and there' a huge cut of fresh meat right there—"

"It's a movie, Mr Creed," October teased. "You're supposed to suspend your disbelief for a couple hours."

"Fucking nonsense," he growled, crossing his arms and looking both furious and disgusted. Except—she'd seen him really furious, hadn't she? Or close to it. This—this was _playing. _The realization made her slap a hand over her mouth to stifle a snicker.

"You don't tame a predator just by letting it out of its cage," he lectured.

"Don't take it so seriously," she pleaded, and now she was laughing anyway, tugging at his arm. "It's supposed to be a legend. Legends are always—"

"Fucked up?" he asked rudely, flicking a surreptitious glance at her hands on his arm. _My, but you're an eager frail, aren't you?_ He thought about asking her if she knew what happened to the last person who'd laughed at him. He should. He'd let her touch him before—only 'cause she'd asked—and now here she was, thinking she could put her mouth on his hands and her hands on his arms. Taking liberties. He ought to knock her off her feet.

Instead:

"Why do you watch this tripe anyway?"

She was tossing back her almond-scented hair, almost bouncing in her seat, grinning widely. "I first went to see this movie just because I liked big animals. My sisters and I—"

He glanced at the pictures over the TV—the big one was no longer turned down; instead it was missing entirely—

"—we used to watch the Discovery Channel whenever they showed the specials on prehistoric mammals. They're just so huge—I mean, armadillos the size of VW Bugs, you know? How cool is that? I used to take them to the Museum of Natural History when I could, too. I always wanted to see one of them in real life. They're just so powerful. And beautiful." She dropped her voice confidingly. "I kind of wish I could ride one."

And didn't that bring to mind a ton of pretty pictures and nasty remarks? Creed grinned, flashing one fang as he eyed her sideways. "I can think of one big animal you can ride _anytime,_ frail," he purred.

Her eyes grew wide and her mouth clamped shut, and she blushed hotly, moving back toward her end of the couch and staring firmly at the TV. She withdrew so quickly it was like watching a sea anemone in the presence of a predator. He opened his mouth to say something suitably cutting and potentially vulgar, but the sabertooth cat re-entered the frame of the television.

"Oh, fer Chrissake," he muttered when the tiger responded obediently to the main character's demands.

At the other end of the couch, she chuckled and smiled, but still studiously kept her gaze away from his. He eyed her stealthily, wondering when she had become so playful and just how long he wanted to let her take advantage of it before sending her spiraling into abject terror again.

He didn't have long to wait. She was asleep before the end of the movie, curled up against the arm of the couch. He turned the piece of crap off and looked at her—took in her toes, like pink pearls, and the lean lines of her legs. Her delicate ankles. The completely untameable mass of her hair. Her one visible wrist, which was slim and frail-boned and shining with the silver charm bracelet.

The cool palm and slightly curled fingers that had stroked over his hand tenderly, as though she were truly concerned.

He tilted his head, watching her from the corner of his eye as she breathed, taking in the slow lull of her heartbeat. Her lashes made dark crescent on her cheeks, and the bruises on her chin were still dark and purpled, but getting better. It was just as well—the day before they'd looked almost fake, like inkstains. He knew people didn't normally bruise like that, not when they fell down the stairs or hit their chin on the counter. They were clearly bruises made from a hand like a vice.

He thought of McQuay. He thought of what he'd do when this was over. It was so satisfying to keep her here at his disposal. She was—entertaining, if nothing else. Frustrating, confusing, infuriating…but entertaining, too. Her only consistency was how often she surprised him: with her laughter, her smart-ass remarks, her quiet and watchful eyes. Those moments when she spoke seriously, and every word was layered and measured: as much of a mystery as a gift. The careless way she reached out to touch his face or arm, like it was second-nature to her, regardless of his mutation or his strength or his meanness.

_The hurt doesn't ever go away, or get better,_ she'd said. _You just stop being surprised by it._

He noticed suddenly the blue smudges under her eyes—hollow shadows. He tilted his head. Sometimes he forgot people like her needed sleep. Still, he wondered at her apparent exhaustion. He wondered briefly if she were sick, but thought he would have smelled it on her.

He snaked out one hand, wrapping a careful claw around her ankle and tugging gently. She unfolded like a flower, rolling onto her back and sliding toward him sleepily. "Hmm?" she murmured, blinking her eyes. "S'up?"

He snorted. Had it been him in her position, the person waking him would already have been gutted on his claws. He let his hand linger over her fragile foot, the fine arch there, then slide back up to bracelet her ankle. He could close his hand around it with room to spare—almost could make a full fist around it. Her delicacy was remarkable to him.

He could break her in _half,_ if he wanted.

"You're exhausted," he said bluntly. He thought he could have been on top of her and had her clothes cut away, pulling her pretty thighs wide before she was awake enough to fight him.

A sleepy smile twitched her lips upward. "Wait. You woke me up…to tell me I'm tired?"

He scowled. "Just wanna know why." If she _was_ sick, or if there was something going on—well, he wanted to know everything, dammit.

A laugh bubbled up in her throat and she rubbed at her eyes, scooting lower on the couch, too tired or too stupid to take note of the heavy claws encircling her ankle. "Living with you isn't exactly the most relaxing experience I've ever had," she teased. She wiggled her foot—_so she had noticed—_not so much to get away as to make a point. "Plus, I wake up a lot." She shrugged and didn't say it was because he made so much noise when he was dreaming.

He knew it though.

He leaned in toward her, one forearm on either side of her thighs. He looked down at her face, his eyes sinister with heat, and even though she was half-asleep, a breath caught in her throat. He grinned, letting his eyes course over her throat and down to her pretty breasts. He let his eyes linger there as the spiced scent of her arousal slowly—so slowly—gathered in the air. Her nipples pricked the fabric of her shirt and he could hear her heartrate pick up as she blushed. His gaze moved lower, over her soft stomach and focusing on the place where her thighs joined.

His nostrils flared at the musky fragrance, dipping his head between her thighs and inhaling. Her hips twitched involuntarily, bucking toward him just a little, and his eyebrows flared upward in surprise at the action. He hadn't anticipated _that_, but he'd place money on the bet that she was _drenched. _

Best to leave her wanting. More fun.

For now.

Eyes flicking back up to her with a mocking glint, he rose abruptly, releasing her and moving back toward the bedroom. "The movie's over," he said as he left. "You should turn that shit off and get some sleep."


End file.
